


Quiet Desperation

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Q are fraternal twins who meet for the first time when they're sixteen-years-old</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Desperation

Arthur didn’t know he had a brother until he turned sixteen. For a long time when he was small, he thought his mother was dead because anytime he asked his father about her, he’d answer, “She’s gone,” in such a detached, succinct way it seemed like death could be the only answer. 

 

It turns out divorce is a lot like a death. 

 

His mother was gone, but only in the sense that she had relocated several thousand miles east across the ocean to live in England. Unbeknownst to Arthur, she took with her a relic of their union, a son, _his brother_ , a fraternal twin. There was no evidence of his brother in father’s home, nor did he ever mention the boy, save for one time, a week after Arthur’s sixteenth birthday when he announced he was traveling to England to see his mother, and would Arthur be interested in joining him?

 

He remembers his father was tall, thin, and sported a mop of salt-and-pepper hair. Arthur also recalls being highly suspicious because his father seemed giddy and fidgety when he asked the question.

 

Only later would he realize his father was on a reunion quest with his mother, who he still loved so much that he couldn’t even speak her name without falling into a deep depression. 

 

“You can also meet your brother,” his father added, almost as an afterthought.

 

Arthur had been making a sandwich after school, and he froze, the refrigerator door open, cold air billowing across his chest.

 

“I have a brother?”

 

“Yes,” he responded, as though Arthur was being deliberately dense. He was already moving around the kitchen, laying out items they’d need for the trip: tickets, passports, printed directions, “A twin brother, actually. Well, not identical,” he amended.

 

Arthur didn’t get mad or demand answers from his father about why this information was kept from him so long for the same reason he never inquired about the personal details of his past — his father had a habit of making such elements seem trivial, as though Arthur was petty for wondering about his place in the universe. 

 

He simply agreed to the invitation and they left.

 

Love makes selfish creatures of the best people, and his parents were no exception. The moment they reconciled, their love affair began anew, culminating in frequent private rendezvous. Arthur rejected the label _abandoned_ because it made him feel weak and vulnerable, but that was exactly the situation. He was alone in a strange home, in the middle of foreign countryside accompanied by a brother he barely knew.

 

Their parents were polar opposites, which explained the simultaneous attraction and repulsion. His father was passionate about literature, oftentimes losing himself for hours in his study when the oppressive cloak of depression hung heavy on his shoulders. Arthur used to love popping into the room (from which he was strictly forbidden) to breathe in the scent of old books, even though his true passion resided in other endeavors.

 

Arthur always explained his love for computers and coding as a genetic flaw or fluke. How else was he to account for the obsession when his father was a bibliophile? 

 

The one small mercy of meeting his mother and brother was that this aspect of his personality suddenly made sense.

 

His mother, Rebecca, was an engineer and hardcore computer nerd, in addition to being a bit of a packrat, various computer parts scattered around her house. The boy (birth name Q, short for Quantum, according to Rebecca), was the same way, and perhaps most annoyingly, clearly smarter than Arthur. If he was to be honest with himself, Arthur would acknowledge his twin brother is a genius. Indeed, the boy had been building his own hardware since the age of eleven, but Arthur was a stubborn lad, so he refused to concede that he, who was accustomed to always being the smartest person in a room, was practically a dullard in comparison to his mother and sibling.

 

Arthur still remembers the sensation of slowly sinking through the floor when he asked his brother if he preferred using a Mac or PC.

 

Q was standing in his room, whip-thin, thick hair pointing in various directions, a familiar scowl furrowing his brow behind horn-rimmed glasses. “I don’t…I design my own,” he stumbled, as if confused by the question.

 

He steered clear of talking shop after that. Q and their mom seemed to share a secret language, frequently making obscure tech-related jokes that reduced them to tittering, but which left Arthur baffled. It was disheartening to be demoted from the smart one to the one not-quite-as-intelligent as fifty percent of his family.

 

Rebecca was statuesque in a way that intimidated him — tall and well-dressed with a crown of short, bouncy curls that moved in an elegant way when she talked or laughed, her head tilted back, red lips stretched open. She tackled everything in life with gusto as though sinking her teeth into a juicy apple. Arthur found her invigorating and exhausting all at once because he had become accustomed to his father wandering the house like a ghost, but in England he was full of life, batteries fully charged now that he had found a great love again.

 

Most of the time, he sulked alone in his room, tinkering on his computer, hacking, but only as a white hat — or so he claimed. Arthur never stole information or emptied bank accounts, but if he was to discover a banking system’s flaw, and force it wide open, shouldn’t he drop them an anonymous email to point out the error? But even here, in the anonymity of the web, Arthur could not escape his inferiority complex.

 

Turns out, his brother is a bit of a legend in the hacking community. Most call him Maddox, but everyone agrees he was reinventing the web as they all knew it. Arthur fights the urge to post a cruel message, something like: _Your beloved hero still has pockmarks and is a hundred pounds soaking wet_.

 

No need to start familial drama, especially during a time when his father floated around the house as though his shoes were filled with helium. And he was not alone. Q once resentfully observed mother wore her hair down during those days, instead of tightly coiled in her trademark bun. She wanted to look younger — she _felt_ younger, buoyed by their reignited affair.

 

For an entire year, this was how they carried on, but like any great love story, theirs ended in tragedy.

 

They were driving at night along a winding country road when a truck crossed over the divider and slammed into them head-on, killing them both instantly, or so the police told them when they were standing barefoot in the foyer, the maid, Jennifer, crying, arms draped around their shoulders in support. Arthur doesn’t know if that’s the version of the story they’re telling them to provide comfort — and he wonders if perhaps the truth is messier, as it so often is. Perhaps they did suffer. Maybe they laid on the pavement for hours, choking on their blood.

 

Arthur felt numb and when he looked over, Q’s face was a reflection of his own: blank, patiently enduring the moment until everyone would leave and they could be alone, together, again.

 

Afterwards, the house was quiet like a tomb.

 

There would be “arrangements,” they’re told, a neat bit of itinerary to tell them what comes next: the funeral, the dividing of the estate, a chartered plane back home to America — for Arthur, at least. He had no idea what was to become of Q. He supposed that detail should concern him, so he walked to his brother’s room and stood in the doorway until his twin noticed him. Q was sitting at his desk, spine rigid, staring straight ahead at the wall, until he noticed a fluttering in his peripheral and looked at Arthur.

 

“Do you have family…you could stay with?” Arthur asked.

 

Q’s brow furrowed for a moment. “No…Well, you, I suppose.”

 

 _Right_. That was the crux of the matter. They were family — the last remnants of their family, actually. Two corks bobbing in a vast ocean.

 

***

 

The funeral was unbearable even by usual standards. Arthur didn’t know anyone, but that didn’t stop strangers from touching him even though his posture screamed hostility. He slumped dejectedly in the front row, an arm’s length away from the closed caskets, scowling whenever a grey-haired person touched his head or shoulder and mumbled their regret. Q was beside him, dressed in a similar black suit, a bit more attentive as he thanked people for their condolences.

 

Arthur overheard someone a few rows back comment on the fact that neither of them were crying, a concerned female voice remarking: “Poor dears are in shock.”

 

For some reason, the words angered him. They weren’t in shock. He and Q knew perfectly well their parents were dead and gone forever. He was simply angry at the absurd ritualistic function that brought him into a room with a bunch of people he didn’t know — and for what? — so everyone could feel like what happened made sense and wasn’t a random thing that could literally happen to anyone at any time?

 

The roof could collapse and bury them all at any second.

 

“I need to get out of here,” he mumbled.

 

Q calmly looked at him in a way that made Arthur feel like a flustered amateur, but his voice was gentle when he said: “All right. I’ll see you at the executer’s office later.”

 

***

 

The withered man behind the massive oak desk was the first person who hadn’t gazed at them in abject pity, and Arthur sort of wanted to kiss his liver-spotted head in thanks. He simply gazed for ages down at a file containing a thick stack of papers — their parents’ will and last wishes.

 

Arthur knew his parents were wealthy — after all, they collected cars and horses — but he was not prepared for the exact figure. Yes, his father had been a semi-well known author back in the day, and his mother was credited for making the design of China’s Three Gorges dam possible, but Arthur had no idea those achievements translated into a lucrative sum of money to the tune of £10 million.

 

Judging by the shocked expression on Q’s face, his brother had no idea either.

 

“So naturally, that sum will be divided in half and kept in a trust until your eighteenth birthdays,” the executor continued, squinting behind his smudged spectacles, “Your parents add they wish for you to move back to the states and attend Harvard together next year whereupon you will also receive your inheritances.”

 

Q inhaled sharply: “But I don’t….I live _here_ ,” he insisted.

 

The news was less devastating for Arthur. After all, his original plan was to attend Harvard in the fall of his eighteen birthday. Briefly, he wondered why his parents thought it so important than they remain together when entering college. Maybe for the same reason his father never allowed him to skip grades: a permanent quest to be normal — to fit in with the other children, lest he become warped.

 

“This is what your parents desired, and I’m afraid your inheritance is based on the condition that you attend college with your brother,” the man continued.

 

Q’s cheeks were scarlet, and Arthur knew he must have barely contained a torrent of unkind words, but his brother eventually swallowed and rasped: “Agreed.”

 

***

 

Arthur ages about a decade over the course of a year. Upon turning eighteen, he’s suddenly in charge of selling his father’s house in Massachusetts, in addition to ensuring he and Q’s application process to Harvard goes smoothly. Naturally, they’re accepted, which is the easy part, but he also has to oversee the gutting of his childhood home, complete with selling off his father’s possessions.

 

The full weight of what’s happening doesn’t hit him until he’s seated in his father’s study, gazing at the walls of books. Some of the books are undoubtedly collector’s items, perhaps even historical artifacts, but Arthur doesn’t have a keen eye for that stuff, and for the first time he’s furious at his father specifically, and not just the circumstances that brought them to this place. If his father was here, he could advise him on how to handle all of this — which books should go to Harvard, or charity, or be saved in storage.

 

“You selfish fool,” Arthur rasps, fingertips stretching across the surface of the old writing desk. There are little scratch marks from his father’s typewriter, and later computer. 

 

Hot tears run down his face, and Arthur permits their presence for approximately a minute before wiping his face and beginning the process of clearing the study.

 

***

 

Q stares at the coffee machine for a long while, visually assessing the situation as mum always advised before he flips open the lid and stares inside. There’s a large container area and a smaller ravine behind it, but he’s not sure which part is for the grinds and water. Back home, he drank tea, and mum knew just how he preferred to take it, but they leave for university next month, and he needs to be able to do these things on his own now.

 

He could ask Arthur for help, but Q is a genius and therefore averse to seeking assistance for any reason. He can drain a country’s federal reserve in just two minutes by tinkering on his computer, so he should be able to figure this out, but oftentimes the little things in life give him the most trouble. He’s threateningly shaking the machine when his brother’s voice asks from behind: “Need help?”

 

“Oh,” Q declares, casting a guilty smile over his shoulder, “Um, yes. Cheers.” No point in denying he doesn’t know what he’s doing now that he’s been caught in the act. “I prefer tea, but when in Rome, yeah? I suppose I should acclimate myself to coffee.”

 

They’re still awkwardly orbiting each other like this — talking in an overly formal, clunky way. Q finds himself making corny jokes, and using expressions he would never say ordinarily. He doesn’t want to be a burden for his brother or anyone else, but so much about this country feels strange and intimidating.

 

“Sure, it’s easy once you know how,” Arthur graciously replies, showing him where to put the paper filter, then the grinds, and finally the water.

 

They stand on either side of the kitchen island while the machine percolates. Arthur is dressed in a smart blue sweater and pressed slacks, Q notes approvingly. Their sartorial tastes are a shared quality to the point where Q would gladly dip into his brother’s closet if the garments wouldn’t sag lifelessly from his more slender frame. This, and their mutual interest in computers, should be bonding points, but rather they’ve become unspoken competitions.

 

Q might be a bit more clever with his coding, but Arthur consistently looks like a model, and it frustrates him. Somehow, his twin brother appears sleek while he looks gangly and slightly awkward.

 

When he realizes Arthur is looking his way, Q flashes a nervous smile: “So…we’ll be rooming together in the fall,” he says, desperately groping for something — anything — to say.

 

“Are you excited?” Arthur asks as he grips the decanter’s handle and fills two mugs.

 

“I suppose,” Q deflects, adding: “It’s what mum wanted.”

 

Arthur glances at him: “And you’ll get a degree.”

 

Q practically snorts, blurting: “I could have launched my own start-up by now,” in a tone dripping with derision before he can think better of it and keep his trap closed.

 

The door between them slams shut, all pleasantness of the moment vanishing, along with the kind expression on Arthur’s face. Of course, he hadn’t meant it as a slight against his brother, but the silent war waged between them poisons all of his harmless comments, convincing Arthur he’s belittling and undermining his achievements when the truth is Q is usually frightened and insecure. 

 

“Well…see to it you have all the items on the Freshmen recommendation sheet,” Arthur says, gaze diverted, voice frigid in its formality.

 

Q sighs as he looks into the dark liquid resting dormant in his mug.

 

_Bugger._

 

***

 

Their room is decent — one of the medium-sized spaces with plenty of square footage for their beds, desks, and maybe even a small couch. Arthur hires a crew to move them in, which is unusual enough to attract the attention of the entire floor, freshmen wandering past their door with wide eyes as they sporadically inquire: “Are you the Levine twins?”

 

Apparently, the arrival of twin millionaire orphans has peaked the interest of the local media and their neighbors.

 

Arthur had naively believed if they lived in one of the dorms, they’d be treated just like anyone else, but he only sort of half-attempts a life of normalcy. For example, he’s willing to live in one of the dorm rooms, but he’s not going to carry his own boxes, for God’s sake. Rubberneckers were unavoidable once he flexed his wallet’s muscle.

 

His brother seems a bit self-conscious of all the attention. He keeps to himself, allowing Arthur to meet and greet their house mates, while he pretends arranging the wires of his computer gear is critically important at this juncture. 

 

“Wow, I can’t believe you guys are in our house. You’re like famous!” a bubbly blonde named Rhonda giggles.

 

Arthur offers a tight-lipped smile, the cruel part of his brain desiring to point out they’re only famous because their parents died in a tragic accident.

 

The interest diminishes over time, the other freshmen preoccupied with mingling and attending parties far away from the Levine twins once they realize the impeccably-dressed duo are much more interested in reading and playing on their computers than binge-drinking. Q decides immediately that he will major in computer engineering, while Arthur opts for computer applied sciences. They’re similar majors, though Arthur’s focus will be on real-life applications whereas Q will tackle the philosophical aspects of their studies, “Like Disney Imagineering,” he explains to laypersons, but Arthur knows it’s a major only pursued by true geniuses.

 

Q is so intelligent he has to make up his own projects and curriculum or he’ll get bored.

 

They spend a lot of time together in their room, but in their own worlds, uncommunicative for the most part, only rarely engaging in monosyllabic banter. Sometimes, Q leaves the room, but Arthur doesn’t inquire about where he goes, and other times he’s the one to leave, but only to get some food or walk around campus to stretch his legs. 

 

It’s fall, so there’s a little bite in the air, and Arthur stays bundled in his peacoat, observing the carefree underclassmen play and flirt on the quad with the lukewarm indifference of a scientist monitoring rats in a maze. They all seem terribly young and naive to Arthur, possessing a lightness and effervescence he doesn’t quite understand, though he harbors a few fragmented memories of being a happy little boy. Nothing concrete, though — nothing he could latch on to and think, yes, I was content then. 

 

Watching the other students is like hearing someone play a familiar song slightly out of tune.

 

When he returns to the room, sometimes Q is there at his desk, typing rapidly, code springing up on the black screen. Other times, he’s not there, but in either case Arthur’s life proceeds in an identical course: Study, sleep, repeat.

 

His commitment pays off immediately. He’s the top of all his classes, including the bigger ones held inside lecture halls. The achievement feels like morphine coursing through his veins — a beautiful salve for the chaos of his life because this is one thing Arthur can control. He is the master of his academic career. However, any glee he feels is immediately extinguished when he somewhat innocently inquires about Q’s marks one evening.

 

His twin’s narrow shoulders rise and fall crookedly: “I don’t keep track, to be honest.”

 

The contempt is not unusual coming from Q, but his nonchalance irks Arthur that day because he’s really trying, and his twin is coasting on his natural brilliance. 

 

“Well, if it’s so unimportant to you, why don’t you drop out, launch that little start-up you’re always talking about, and stop wasting our inheritance?” Arthur spits, heart racing because he’s thought the words for so long, but never dared to say them aloud.

 

He’s seated on his bed, an arm’s length from Q, who is hunched over his desk. His brother looks up, brows arched in surprise, which takes some of the wind from his sails because Arthur begins to suspect he might have been misreading the situation. Q doesn’t look smug or condescending. Frankly, he looks baffled.

 

“Because mum and dad wanted us to stay together.”

 

Arthur stares at him: “But we barely speak. You spend most of your time ignoring me.”

 

Now Q is frowning and he shuts his laptop, a movement Arthur has never seen him make before. His brother sometimes acts like physical contact with his computer is a base requirement, like sunlight or oxygen.

 

“You keep to yourself. I didn’t want to disturb you,” Q says.

 

His heart beat has reduced to a distant thud, a tin can being kicked down a dirt road, the frenzy and excitement having left him now that he realizes he’s been wrong this whole time. Q doesn’t hate him or think he’s a philistine. Rather, Arthur has been unfriendly and judgmental.

 

They’re not close because Arthur kept pulling away.

 

He exhales loudly, back slumped against the wall: “I’m intimidated by you because you’re so smart,” he says, feeling he owes Q some honesty for being such a prick about everything else.

 

His brother laughs, and it’s sort of a sweet, dorky noise. He almost snorts, but cuts off the sound at the last second, shaking his head in charming self-deprecation. “Only in one field. I’m a bit dense when it comes to other things. I can’t do my own laundry,” he confesses, grinning and adjusting his glasses.

 

Arthur smiles slowly, not wanting to point out he doesn’t know how to do laundry either because this is Q baring a little bit of his soul, and he doesn’t want to stomp on the gesture. 

 

There’s a span of silence before Q adds: “I’m quite intimidated by you too. You’re very…” he trails off, waving his hand, “Fit, you know? I’m a bit scrawny. Some people think I’m your younger brother.”

 

He’s not pleased with the swelling in his chest — pride — at the realization Q envies something he has. Arthur would not describe himself as fit, per se, but it’s comforting to know Q has insecurities just like every other human. 

 

“Being fit won’t make me a titan of industry,” Arthur teases.

 

“No, but you’re good…with people, I mean. You’ve a confidence about you,” Q generously adds. His brother is really trying, fidgeting in simmering nervousness because he’s unsure any of his kind words are sticking their landings. “And you’re smart too. You only feel dim because you compare yourself to me,” he says, grinning slightly.

 

Arthur chuckles, saying: “Cheeky,” and flopping to the side, braced upon an elbow. He eyes his brother thoughtfully for a moment, “We’re family, so you can tell me things, if you want.”

 

Q nods eagerly, clearing his voice before he answers, “Yes, and you…as well.”

 

A bit clumsy, but it’s their first step.

 

***

 

Q comes to him sooner than Arthur anticipated. It’s the next day in the afternoon, Arthur just returned from class, has only removed his right shoe while sitting on the edge of his bed, when the door to their room opens. Q walks in, drops his messenger bag, and sits down heavily directly beside Arthur, an intrusion of personal space to which Arthur is unaccustomed to in general, but especially when it comes to his brother.

 

Luckily, Q is too preoccupied to notice Arthur’s horrified expression.

 

“Does everyone think I’m arrogant?” Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but Q keeps speaking: “I’m _confident_. There’s a difference. I’m quite good in teams — to a point, I mean. I’m very good at what I do, and I’m not shy about expressing that. Is that arrogance?”

 

Arthur looks at him, only speaking when he’s sure his brother is done talking: “Sometimes…it comes across as arrogance.”

 

Q’s jaw tenses: “Well, you can be quite arrogant too, you know.”

 

Arthur smiles slowly: “Maybe it’s genetic.”

 

His twin’s lips quirk at the corner, and it’s nice — teasing him like this, knowing he won’t take it too personally or fly off the handle. It feels familiar, almost like they’re friends. “I know I don’t let on, but I want people to like me. People seem to like you.”

 

“Some people…others don’t,” Arthur answers evasively. The truth is, he’s good enough about making acquaintances, but he’s spooked by the idea of forming close relationships. Maybe it stems from losing his parents.

 

“Tell me what I should do,” Q earnestly requests.

 

“Um…” Arthur articulately answers, brow furrowed: “I guess…stop being such a dick, like you’re too good to be here.”

 

He’s sort of half-joking, but Q nods eagerly, as though mentally filing away the _don’t be a dick_ advice. Arthur feels mildly guilty, so he adds: “You’re not _that_ bad. Just quiet. Maybe try being more social, you know? Talk to people…”

 

The look of sheer determination on Q’s face is endearing, and a smile creeps across Arthur’s face while his brother declares: “Right. Socialize. I can do that.”

 

“And we can hang out more, if you want. Maybe that’ll help warm you up to the idea of the rest of the human race,” Arthur grins.

 

Q smiles, and it’s the first time Arthur thinks they look related — in the way his twin smiles with his whole face, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

 

“I’d like that.”

 

***

 

“ _This_ is what you do when you’re on your own?” Q asks distastefully.

 

They’re seated on a bench nearby one of the greenery spaces where there is grass, trees, and a bevy of students milling about. Arthur has just taken a bite of his wrapped sandwich, so he pauses to wipe at his mouth with a paper napkin and chew as he gazes in amusement at his brother.

 

“Yes, what’s wrong with it?”

 

Q wrinkles his nose: “Just a bit dull. I always thought you had a secret lover or something…”

 

Arthur laughs as he gazes across the yard. He supposes that makes sense. For a few weeks, he’s been running off for long periods of time. Naturally, Q assumed he was being evasive for some reason.

 

“I like watching the people.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Dunno,” Arthur says, shrugging, “I like acquiring data, I suppose. I try to figure out who they are, what they’re doing, stuff like that.”

 

“Research,” Q comments, smiling as though he finally understands. 

 

Arthur grins: “Yeah, research.”

 

He likes to collect knowledge of all stripes, filing it away in the plethora of tiny drawers inside his brain. 

 

“You’re a hacker, aren’t you?” Q asks, even though he already knows the answer.

 

Arthur’s smile slips because once again they’ve entreated terrain in which Q is king, and he is woefully outmatched by his brother’s savviness. “Sort of. I tinker. I’m not like you,” he says, reaching over to the seat space beside him to pick up his styrofoam coffee cup. Q hums thoughtfully and Arthur eyes his profile. Despite his twin’s insistence, Arthur doesn’t think he looks awkward and gangly. He actually thinks his brother could be quite handsome, if only he knew how to carry himself, “Why do you go by Maddox?”

 

The question has been needling at him for some time, but this is the first time he’s felt close enough to Q to make the inquiry.

 

Q smiles sheepishly: “I thought it made me sound tough.”

 

Arthur laughs, shaking his head as he takes a sip of the warm beverage. 

 

“Is it true you hacked into the Federal Reserve?”

 

His brother nods, adjusting his glasses. “Mm…for a few minutes. I could have done some real damage, but…you know…”

 

Arthur nods, understanding without explanation. They’re white hat hackers: infiltrate, muck about, but do not inflict lasting damage. They’re pioneers, not pirates. 

 

“Ever been caught?” Arthur asks. Q rolls his eyes and looks at him. He smiles, pleased by the silent communication. Maybe they’re getting to know each other after all, “Me either,” he grins.

 

***

 

“Do you miss mum and dad?” 

 

They’re resting in their respective beds, each on their backs, staring at the ceiling, separated by only the narrow strip of floor that leads from the door and their closets to the rest of the room. 

 

Arthur’s arms are folded behind his head, legs crossed, top foot swaying back and forth as he thinks a moment: “Sure…I didn’t really know mom, but I miss dad a lot.”

 

“Same for me, but…you know…reversed.” Arthur glances over to Q’s bed and observes his profile. His brother has nice, but curious, eyes. They flit back and forth as though he’s always searching for an answer to a problem only he has noticed. From this position, he can only see one of his eyes, but it’s definitely doing its flitting thing — a frenzied little goldfish trapped in its bowl, fin propelling it about, “I wish she was here, so I could ask her things…”

 

“Like what?”

 

Q shrugs, “Dunno. Just…things.”

 

Arthur silently absorbs his words. They’re technically the same age, but he feels strangely protective of his brother. Perhaps it’s the fact that Q was uprooted from his native land and forced to relocate thousands of miles away in a foreign place, or maybe it’s his physical slightness that makes Arthur want to shield him from harm. It’s a new, strange sensation — that protectiveness. Before, it was always Arthur and his father, and dad was the protecter.

 

But now…he’s filled with a new sense of purpose. 

 

“You can ask me things,” he offers, “I don’t know how helpful I can be, but…”

 

Q slowly looks over to him, and for a moment they silently watch one another, and Arthur is struck by all their features’ similarities and differences. He’s always thought his brown eyes dull, and he’s a bit envious of Q’s lighter shade — blue, but with a darker ring around the edges that make them look like starbursts. 

 

“Have you ever had sex?”

 

Arthur inhales so sharply he chokes and has to spring up into a seated position as he coughs. Q, the bastard, simply laughs, giddy as he witnesses his brother’s prude response. But who could blame Arthur? He really hadn’t been expecting the question.

 

“Jesus…warn me when you’re gonna ask something like that,” Arthur finally sputters, cheeks warm.

 

“Sorry,” Q smiles, not sounding the least bit repentant. 

 

Arthur scowls at him: “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

 

Now his brother’s interest has been piqued. Q rolls onto his side, propped onto his elbow, a cheeky expression on his face as though they’re being terribly naughty right now. They are, of course, young men in college, and none of this (including their conversation) is particularly scandalous, but Q is rather sheltered, and Arthur knows he didn’t have many people to confide in.

 

“Who?” 

 

“Just…someone, in high school.”

 

“Were you dating?”

 

“No.”

 

“So just that one time?”

 

“A few times with that one person,” Arthur answers, smirking when he notices a wave of disappointment wash across Q’s face, “What about you?”

 

His twin sighs, collapsing onto his back as though what he’s going to confess next is tragic news: “No, never. That’s what university is for though, isn’t it? That’s what people always say, but I don’t know the first thing about meeting people. I loathe parties. Drinking has never agreed with me. Where do people meet?”

 

Arthur chuckles, amused by his misanthropic sibling. “Anywhere. Coffee shop, in one of your classes. Do you ever talk to your classmates?”

 

“What? During class?” Q asks, sounding horrified.

 

“No, dummy. After class. They’re taking similar courses because they have _similar interests_. You can meet people that way.”

 

Q hums, taking in the information. “So..it’s like research,” he says, glancing at Arthur.

 

“If that helps, yes. It’s like research, and your relationship is like development,” he says, grinning.

 

It’s a joke, but judging by the way Q’s face lights up, the advice really strikes a nerve.

 

***

 

Q’s been lonely for so long that it’s become normal — hardly loneliness at all, really, and more like meditative, productive solitude. In one of his classes, they’re reading Henry David Thoreau and he often thinks of a passage from _Walden_ : _I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived._ He’s spent years acquiring knowledge, refining the powerful muscle of his mind, but it wasn’t until he found out he has a brother that Q realized he’s missed companionship.

 

It’s odd, at first, having Arthur in his personal space, but after a while he becomes accustomed to it, and he even misses his brother when Arthur disappears for hours at a time. The desire to confide in someone and share his inner thoughts is new for Q, but it’s nice. Observing his parents, Q always assumed their co-dependence was a form of weakness, but now he understands there can be great strength in a bond like theirs.

 

Arthur tells him he needs to talk to people, preferably classmates, so the next morning Q walks across campus to one of the big brick buildings and sits at the back of his English literature class so he can observe everyone. It’s one of the mandatory courses all freshmen have to take, regardless of their majors, and while Q would normally find such perquisites annoying — roadblocks between him and his ultimate goal — for some reason, he likes this class. 

 

Q looks around, trying to determine who will be agreeable if approached, but such a quality is difficult to determine by simply assessing visual aesthetics. He’s still trying to compile a top ten list in his brain when the front door opens and the students’ chattering dies down. The professor walks in, briefcase in hand, ignoring the class even though all eyes are on him as he removes his parker and scarf.

 

“Right…” he finally says, spine straightening so he may observe the students with his piercing gaze, “Walden. What was this madman trying to achieve? Surely, these days, if you heard of a man who surrendered his possessions in order to go live in the woods, you’d think him insane.” The class titters in recognition and Q smiles faintly. He likes Professor Bond’s monologues, and not just because of the familiarity of his British accent, “Is Walden mad? Is he arrogant, or pretentious?”

 

He’s clearly looking for an answer, but the students are too timid to speak up. Normally, Q would be too. Professor Bond has a way of intimidating people into silence, but then Q remembers Arthur’s advice. If he’s going to make connection, he has to put himself out there.

 

Q raises his hand and waits for the professor to acknowledge him: “It doesn’t matter,” he says, rushing to clarify when the professor furrows his brow in curiosity, “He might be mad, arrogant, _and_ pretentious, but he’s still right about society and its excesses. He can still feel morally bankrupt and those feelings can be valid, sort of like Holden Caulfield in _Catcher in the Rye_. Holden is a brat—“ Q pauses in surprise when some of his classmates laugh, but then he smiles and continues, “He’s this anti-social, unbearable person, but he occasionally makes a good critique of society and people.”

 

Professor Bond leans against his desk, considering the answer before he frowns thoughtfully and nods: “Interesting. So our protagonist doesn’t need to be likable. Let’s use this as a jumping off point…” He turns to the wipe board and picks up a marker. Q relaxes in his seat, the back of his crown resting against the wall as Professor Bond proceeds to launch into an improvised, fascinating lecture about modern society’s obsession with the _good hero_ , and most recently, the anti-hero, more in line with _Walden_ and _Catcher_ , “As Q so astutely notes, it appears our culture has finally realized human beings are flawed creatures.”

 

Q’s face warms at the praise and he slumps a bit, secretly hoping no one will look at him. No one does, so instead he watches Professor Bond, and the way his broad back moves as he writes across the board, making connections between _Walden_ and _Breaking Bad_ that leave the students smiling and typing furiously on their laptops.

 

He’s so consumed by the lecture that Q forgets to socialize after class. Instead, he quickly gathers his things, shoves laptop and book in the messenger bag, pulls on his coat, and hurries towards the door. That is, until a voice causes him to stagger to a halt: “Q…a word, please.”

 

Frowning, Q approaches the desk where Professor Bond is organizing his briefcase: “Excellent points today. I hope you’ll be participating more in class,” he says, gazing over the tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

 

Q adjusts the strap across his chest: “Um…I hadn’t realized my participation was lacking…”

 

Professor Bond’s smirk is an answer in itself. Q can play dumb all he likes, but they both know he considers this a blow-off class. Most of the time he doesn’t even take out his laptop to take notes. He may not be literature-minded, but he knows enough about arguing and essay-writing to bullshit through most of the assignments. 

 

“It’s nice to know you don’t think our little class is beneath you.”

 

His face feels warm as he answers: “I’m sorry if I gave that impression, but—“

 

“Look,” the professor interrupts, clicking shut the briefcase and righting it on his desk, thick fingers folding around the handle, “I’m aware most of you are going to go work on Wall Street or for defense companies, and I’m part of the last vestiges of the liberal arts requirement at this university, but you’ve a sharp mind — not just for computers — and all I ask is that you pay me the same courtesy you extend to all your other professors.”

 

Q’s mouth opens and then shuts as he gropes in the dark for an answer, or a witty retort. He’s a bit blindsided because a few moments ago Professor Bond was offering him praise, and now he finds himself in the middle of a confrontation. 

 

“I’ll do my best,” he finally sputters.

 

Professor Bond smiles thinly: “That’s all I can hope for.”

 

***

 

By the time he returns to their room, Q is in a terrible mood and he chucks down the messenger bag by his bed before dramatically throwing himself across the mattress, cheap springs squeaking noisily in objection. 

 

Arthur is reading in bed, but he can’t see what book because he’s using his electronic reader. His brother sets it aside and sighs: “What happened?”

 

Q rolls onto his side and huffs: “I have this old, bitter English professor who’s angry he’s in a dying profession, and he’s taking it out on me.”

 

“Bitter _and_ angry? Heavens,” Arthur teases, smiling when his twin shoots a hostile look, “Have you been behaving as though the class is unimportant?”

 

“Well, of course!” Q cries, sitting up, “It is unimportant to me. I wouldn’t even be taking the course if it wasn’t mandatory.”

 

Arthur rolls his eyes, smirking: “You really need to work on your people skills, and believe me, if _I’m_ telling you that, the problem is dire.” Q scowls at his twin, but instead of reflexively responding with a snide remark, he considers Arthur’s advice. What good will talking to people do him if, when he does manage to socialize, every interaction ends badly? “Did you talk to any of the other students?”

 

“No, but I will,” Q promises, but really he’s thinking about what he’s going to say to Professor Bond the next time he sees him.

 

“You shouldn’t be so dismissive of literature. Dad was an author, you know.”

 

“I know that,” Q mumbles, annoyed Arthur thinks that little of him, “I’ve nothing against books, for God’s sake. I just have other interests.”

 

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head as he picks up the e-reader: “You should tell your professor that. _Sorry I can’t read Moby Dick, I’m too busy being an internationally-renowned hacker_.”

 

Q snorts, reaching down to wrestle a boot off his foot: “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

***

 

Though he promises to be more social, Q spends the next few days skipping class and staying in his room to program. His latest pet project is a new virus he’s working on, not to unleash on the world, but rather for his own amusement. At the very worst, he’ll test it on an unsuspecting bank and then follow up with a helpful email about how they can counteract the damage. Arthur must notice he’s not going to class, but his brother never says anything, probably because Q has still managed to maintain a perfect GPA.

 

The curriculum is just a bit dull, and though many of the professors have allowed him to create his own agenda, he still finds the lectures lacking. That is…all except English literature.

 

Q stops clacking the keys and gazes guilty at his bed where a copy of _Walden_ rests. He really should read the rest of it. Tomorrow is Professor Bond’s class, and he’ll be expected to participate, lest he endure the wrath of his instructor again. 

 

He sighs, relocating to the bed where he spends the rest of the afternoon reading the book.

 

“I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours,” Q recites from memory the next day in class.

 

The girl beside him sighs dreamily: “I like that part, the way you say it.”

 

Q smiles slightly, bashfully. Professor Bond watches him thoughtfully, arms crossed over his chest as he hums: “Do you believe that, Q? If we approach our goals with confidence we can achieve anything?”

 

“It depends on our goals, but yes, I think confidence can’t hurt ingenuity,” he says, spine straightening a bit. This time, he’s prepared for Professor Bond’s grilling.

 

“Thoreau writes, ‘Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations.’ What do you make of that?” he asks, addressing the whole room, but Q knows the question is directed at him: “How many of your would sacrifice a fat paycheck in exchange for enriching our culture?”

 

“Perhaps we enrich our culture in different ways,” Q blurts. The professor’s eyes are paralyzingly blue and they lock Q in position when they fall upon him, “Walden’s perspective is limited by the time he lived in. He couldn’t have foreseen the technological revolution.”

 

“He would have detested the excesses of it,” Bond counters.

 

“Or he would have seen it unite the oppressed. The internet belongs to us all, empowering everyone. Surely that sort of direct action would have appealed to Thoreau.”

 

Bond smiles slowly, briefly glancing at the wall clock: “All right, that’s all for today,” he says over the sounds of chairs scraping and the students’ voices as they immediately begin to socialize — all except Q, who is seated at the back, watching him: “Please remember your essays on _Walden_ are due next week.”

 

He waits for the class to filter out before standing and approaching the professor’s desk. Professor Bond is stooped slightly, gathering various items, but his eyes shine when he sees Q: “Very good participation today, Mr. Levine.” 

 

“Thank you,” Q says, “I don’t want you to think I don’t value this class.”

 

There it is again: the wry smile, curling Professor Bond’s lips, as though they’re sharing a little joke Q doesn’t quite understand: “Oh, I’m so glad you value it,” he says, recycling Q’s vocabulary, but warping the words slightly so they sound sarcastic, which is not how Q meant them at all. He’s trying to figure out how to show the professor he’s serious when the words slip out:

 

“My father was a writer and he recently died.”

 

Professor Bond’s briefcase snaps shut loudly in the now-silent space of the classroom. “I know…I heard about it on the news. I’m terribly sorry.”

 

Q hurries forth, not wanting to linger in the sad moment: “But what I mean is…I value literature. I think what you’re doing is contributing to our culture, as Thoreau writes…”

 

It’s apparently the right thing to say because the professor chuckles, though he looks quite chuffed Q has incorporated his teachings into their conversation. “Very good. Although, I’m sure Thoreau would not approve of my working for an institution,” he says, squinting briefly at his wristwatch, “I’m afraid I have to be across campus in about ten minutes, so I need to get to my car.”

 

“I’ll walk with you,” Q says quickly, hurrying to the back of the room to fetch his things. His brother’s voice echoes in his head to be social and gracious, even though he’s certain Arthur didn’t mean with his professor. But no matter. He’s enjoying the conversation.

 

Professor Bond watches him in amusement by the door, and when Q’s jacket is fastened and his bag rests draped across his chest, they exit the room, then the building, and walk at a languid pace from the hall towards the asphalt of the parking lot.

 

“How are you enjoying living in the states?” Professor Bond asks.

 

Seeing him outside of the classroom is strange. He looks a bit younger and more relaxed in the real world. Q languidly shrugs: “It’s fine. Hard to find a good cuppa.”

 

Professor Bond smiles: “I make a mean cup of Earl Grey,” he says, a nearby car chirping when his thumb hits the clicker, “This is me.”

 

They pause by the car and Q grips the strap of his bag for purchase, rocking briefly onto his heels and flashing a tightlipped smile. At first, he believes his nerves stem from a lack of socialization experience, but soon realizes the reason he doesn’t want the professor to leave is because he’s enjoying himself. 

 

“Maybe we can get a cup of tea sometime,” he says, immediately feeling dizzy in the wake of his own brazen declaration, “Since you’re a local. I’m sure you know where we can find some decent tea.”

 

The professor’s back is to him when he says it, hunched over as he deposits the briefcase on the passenger seat. He pauses for a bit, longer than necessary for such a simple task, and Q is breathless waiting, fully believing he’s gone too far. Silently, he curses Arthur’s name. He shouldn’t try socializing. He should be back in their room by now, happily typing away at his computer.

 

When the man’s spine straightens, the look on his face bolsters Q’s paranoia. He looks wary and thoughtful, gazing over Q’s shoulder briefly.

 

“Q…” he begins.

 

“Consider it my apology for being a condescending wanker. My treat?” he smiles, aiming for charming.

 

That makes the man laugh and Q practically glows in response.

 

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Arthur knows something is up the second his twin returns from class. He’s acting strangely: smiling, for starters, and it must be inspired by something bigger than having intellectually trounced one of his classmates again. There’s a dreamy quality about him — a luminous sort of halo that Arthur has never seen before.

 

“You’ve met someone,” he says, so surprised that he shuts his laptop and turns in the chair so Q has his full attention.

 

Q appears equally amazed he’s so quickly and accurately read the situation: “Bloody hell,” he laughs, “You’re perceptive.”

 

Arthur smirks: “I’m good at reading people. Who is it?”

 

For some reason, his brother hesitates before answering: “He’s from class…”

 

Arthur’s eyebrows quirk upwards: “A fellow, hm?” he grins.

 

Poor Q doesn’t realize he’s teasing and looks a bit pale when he asks: “Is that a problem?”

 

“Not at all. That’s just another thing we have in common,” Arthur smirks.

 

A wave of relief washes across his brother’s face, the dopey smile returning, as he crosses the room and collapses on the couch between the desks that rests flush against the far wall. “I asked him out and gave him my number, but I don’t know what it is..” he sighs, laying back, fingers raking through his thick mane of hair, “Maybe we’re meeting as friends.”

 

“How did you phrase it when you asked him out?”

 

“I said we could go get tea…”

 

Arthur stares at him: “That’s the most British thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

Q groans, rubbing at his face, glasses bobbing atop his fingertips, “Ugh, I know. I panicked and reverted back to my roots.”

 

He laughs, chair turning back and forth, swiveling slightly, “It’s not terrible. You asked him out, but kept it casual. You did well,” he adds approvingly, nodding and frowning in a way that means he’s impressed. “Is he from your English literature class?”

 

Q glances out the window, down to the lawn that is comprised mostly of dead leaves these days, “Uh, yeah.”

 

“See, I told you not to be dismissive about literature. Nothing that romantic would have happened in your advanced engineering classes.”

 

Arthur feels pleased for his brother, and Q still looks happy, though a flash of doubt has entered his gaze, and he’s not sure why.

 

***

 

He feels guilty, even though he hasn’t technically lied to Arthur. A meek, meddling voice at the back of his brain points out he withheld key information because he knows seeing his professor is wrong, but Q quickly suffocates the interloper. Arthur wants him to be more social, and that’s what he’s doing.

 

The teahouse is small: consisting of three tables which are occupied by college students. Q selects the third table at the very back of the store because it’s farther away from the other two, located in a sunken area of the space that offers a bit of privacy. Professor Bond texted him the address and he’s early because he was too nervous to wait any longer, and besides, Q tells himself it’s advantageous to be early so he can select the seating and watch his maybe-date enter.

 

His nerves double when Professor Bond arrives — dressed in a cream cable knit sweater and grey trousers. He looks like a walking J. Crew ad, and Q stands up quickly out of reflex, offering an awkward little wave because what else is he to do? A hug is inappropriate, a handshake too formal, and a kiss on the cheek far too romantic.

 

“Why are you hiding back here?” Professor Bond chuckles, taking the seat beside him.

 

“Dunno…” Q smiles sheepishly, sitting again. “I ordered Earl Grey. Is that all right?”

 

“Of course. My favorite,” he smiles.

 

Q nods, pleased, but a lengthy pause follows before he chuckles: “I’m not sure what to call you outside of the classroom.”

 

“James is fine,” the man responds, just as the waitress returns with a tray of their tea. She sets down the cups and mini teapot and leaves. Professor Bond— _James_ pours them each a piping cup, the silk bags bobbing in water. Q thanks him when he hands over his cup and uses the little silver spoon to squeeze the bag and darken the water until it turns a warm amber hue.

 

He takes a sip and hums in approval, “This almost feels like home.”

 

“Why did you leave the motherland?” James inquires, languidly stirring the spoon.

 

Q gives him the abbreviated version: meeting Arthur and his father, the tragic deaths, the last wishes, and finally Harvard. James listens with fierce intenseness, his eyes like lasers, and it’s all a bit overwhelming. Q knows he must be a little flushed from all the attention.

 

“That must have been very difficult for you,” he comments, and James looks sincerely upset at the thought of Q’s past.

 

He’s English, so the natural impulse is to shrug off the trauma, and to bury it deep beneath layers of stiff upper lips. Q shrugs, pausing for another sip of tea, “Well, anyway…It’s the past, isn’t it? I’m getting to know my brother, so that’s something good, and I’m enjoying my studies here.”

 

“Including my class?” James teases.

 

Q smiles, “Yes, very much.”

 

He entirely forgets about the tea when the man leans forward. Q has never seen him up close like this, and he’s struck by how very handsome he is, even with the fine lines around his eyes and mouth because even they lend to the worldly, wise qualities of his face. Suddenly, his tongue feels heavy and clumsy in his mouth, and when he inhales, James’ cologne — something rich and musky — floods his nostrils.

 

“I’ve enjoyed having you in my class,” he says, voice pitched low, tone suggestive in a way that erases any innocent possibility from this situation.

 

Q should feel relieved because now he _knows_. James is flirting with him. This is a date. And yet, his heart still pounds somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. 

 

“Even though I’m arrogant and dismissive?” Q quips, lips curling in a wicked little smirk.

 

James’ eyes shine, and though Q misses his glasses a little bit, it’s better because now he has an unobstructed view of the man’s gaze.  

 

“Yes, and I rather like those qualities about you, if I’m to be honest,” the man counters, and now their tea is rapidly cooling because neither of them are interested in the porcelain cups anymore. His gaze drops and he exhales, “However, I feel it would be…inappropriate for anything else to happen between us, Q.”

 

“Why?” Q asks.

 

“Because I’m your professor and it’s a conflict of interest,” James answers, leaning back now, away from Q.

 

He instantly feels annoyed that James is pulling away from him figuratively _and_ literally, “So? I’d pass with flying colors even if you weren’t here right now,” he blurts.

 

James bursts out laughing, white teeth on display. He has very nice teeth for an Englishman, and the sound soothes Q’s nerves. “True enough,” he chuckles, “But it’s still not appropriate, I’m afraid.”

 

“You can’t be that worried about appropriateness or you wouldn’t be here,” Q presses, feeling bold because James hasn’t left yet, and if he really felt uncomfortable he wouldn’t still be sitting beside him.

 

James sighs again, content in vanquishment, gazing at him, “You’re quite captivating,” he says quietly.

 

Q flushes and looks at his teacup, struggling to think of an answer. No one has ever called him _captivating_ before and he isn’t sure how to respond. Most of his early life has been spent in isolation, and he’s certainly never met a man like James before. It’s all rather…flustering, and Q is unaccustomed to making demands, but also feels now would be an appropriate time to state what he wants.

 

“You can leave if you want, but you haven’t, so I think you want to be here,” Q says, closely watching James’ face and the slow smile curving his lips as he listens to his carefully mapped logic, “And I want you to stay.”

 

“Well..” James sighs, picking up the silver spoon again to resume stirring, “Then I mustn’t disappoint you, hm?”

 

Q smiles slowly: “No.”

 

They talk for about an hour about a range of topics from literature to engineering. James seems particularly interested in Q’s field of studies, which flatters him greatly. However, when he tries to turn the tables, James stays in safe territory: his field of expertise mostly, and it does not escape Q’s attention that he dodges questions about his family and the early years of his life. He eventually glances at his wristwatch and is surprised to see so much time has passed.

 

Suddenly, Arthur’s face fills his vision.

 

“I have to get back,” he says sheepishly.

 

“Ah, yes, I shouldn’t keep you,” James says, rising from the chair.

 

As if he’s an inconvenience — as though Q hasn’t been obsessively fantasizing about their date since they first made plans. 

 

James volunteers to drive him back to the dorm and Q accepts, feeling giddy as they walk together towards the small parking lot adjacent to the tea house. He’s proud to be seen in public with a dashing man, who finds him captivating, and keeps glancing Q’s way with a gleam in his eyes that borders on cheeky. By the time he climbs into the car, his face and neck are warm and his heart beats quickly.

 

He’s painfully aware of James’ hand and its close proximity to his knee every time he switches gears while driving. They’re fairly quiet, the silence massive between them, especially when he feels James glancing at the side of his face. By the time the man parks in the lot nearby his building, Q feels far too hot. He needs to unbutton his jacket or step outside for some fresh air. Instead, James’ large hand grips the back of his neck and drags him forward, and Q only has enough time to whisper _James_ before warm lips crush against his mouth.

 

No one has ever kissed him before, let alone this commanding, unrelenting embrace. James kisses him like he’s thought about it for quite some time, and the thought sends a thrill through Q’s body. He’s not quite sure what to do with his hands, so he rests them against the furnace of James’ chest, which burns even through the layers of his sweater and jacket. The man makes a soft, hungry sound in response that encourages him, and large hands rise to cup his face. They’re so warm, the fingertips slightly rough from callouses, and they expertly stroke his cheeks as lips fall open and his tongue presses inside.

 

James leads and Q follows, desperate to keep up and please his instructor, and the man occasionally makes a soft noise that demonstrates he’s doing well. Eventually, they separate, and a wide smile breaks across his face when he sees how wrecked James look. It’s exciting to know he’s the source of his dishevelment.

 

“You’re going to be trouble,” he smirks.

 

“ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” Q notes, leaning back against the cool door, dopey from endorphins and the masculine smell of James that fills the car.

 

James watches him for a moment before he reaches for him again, this time dragging him forward by the lapel of his jacket, “Come here,” he growls a second before kissing him again, hungrier this time, Q half-draped atop him as they make out. Thankfully, the parking lot is somewhat concealed, and after a few moments the windows fog up to provide a second curtain of privacy. 

 

“Okay..” he laughs, pulling way, grinning like mad when the man keeps kissing along his jawline and down the curve of his neck, “ _Okay_ ,” he says, pulling back, “I really must go.”

 

“When can I see you again?” James asks, face and neck flushed, his gaze fixated on Q’s clavicle where his collar has opened.

 

He feels dizzy with vertigo by the rapid inversion of their power dynamic. Now it’s James on the other end of the leash, practically begging to be in his company. Q wants to go home with him. He’d like to see his house and burrow under the blankets of his bed. He wants to see James in the morning, walking around in boxer shorts.

 

“Soon, I promise,” he smiles, staying long enough for one more kiss…and then another.

 

He makes himself leave the car. The air is a shock to his system – frigid by comparison to the balmy environment of James’ vehicle. He buttons his jacket all the way and pulls the collar up, hands stuffed in his pockets, the bag an anchor, pulling, urging him backwards, but he presses forth until he’s back in the safety of his house.

 

“Jesus, where were you? I was freaking out. I called your cellphone. Didn’t you get my messages?” Arthur asks in one continuous breath, Q initially responding with a series of blinks. He’s still coming down from the high of being with James, and the sight of his brother sutured in a waistcoat and french cuffs — immaculate, but furious — serves as an anti-aphrodisiac. 

 

Q fishes the phone from his pocket and frowns when he sees the display: eight missed calls, three new voicemails, all from Arthur.

 

“Sorry…I lost track of time.”

 

Arthur collapses onto his bed and sighs: “I thought you were in a ditch somewhere.”

 

He slides out of his jacket and sits beside Arthur, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, unchartered territory for them because they’re not really a touchy-feely family. Luckily, his twin does not recoil at the touch. In fact, when Q gives him a squeeze he feels the muscles in Arthur’s back and bicep relax a bit.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, “It was just going really well,” he adds with a smile.

 

That distracts Arthur long enough for him to forget he’s angry. A slow smile bleeds across his lips: “Oh yeah?” he asks, bordering on a leer, “Tell me about it.”

 

Q laughs at his brother’s expression and slides higher on Arthur’s bed so he can rest his back against the wall: “He’s great. We talked for over an hour, and he’s so sexy.”

 

“Wow,” Arthur grins, “What’s his name?”

 

“James,” he says, smiling, feeling young and silly, a rush of giddiness because what he has with James is real and he gets to share it with someone.

 

“ _James_ ,” Arthur echoes, adding a lusty undertone, “Very nice. So he’s a freshman too?”

 

 _No, he’s my middle-aged English professor and I’m in way over my head_. “Yeah,” Q smiles, quickly adding: “I’m going to see him again soon.”

 

Arthur’s eyebrows arch high on his forehead: “It’s getting serious then…” Q nods, still smiling happily when his brother says, “Just be careful. College boys can be trouble.”

 

The words summon a freshly formed memory of James, flushed and devastatingly handsome: _You’re going to be trouble_.

 

He smiles faintly: “We’re just having fun. I’ll be all right.”

 

Q isn’t quite sure why he lies to his brother. Maybe it has something to do with Arthur’s protective streak. Though they weren’t raised together, his twin appears to have adopted a caretaker role in their relationship, which simultaneously comforts and unnerves Q. It’s nice to have someone looking out for him while he adjusts to a new school in a foreign country, and yet he also feels constantly accountable— and the betrayal of lying to Arthur weighs heavily on his conscience.

 

But he also knows the truth would worry Arthur to the extent that every moment with James would be tainted with anxiety.

 

This relationship is special to him, something he’s never had before, and he wants to protect and nurture it for a little while. Perhaps that’s selfish, but Q feels as though he’s earned the right to happiness after all the terrible things that have befallen them.

 

Arthur is hopped up on adrenaline and Q is too excited to sleep, so they go to the cafeteria and order a couple of burritos to bring back to the room, and stay up late watching films on Arthur’s laptop in his bed. They lay shoulder-to-shoulder, the ruins of aluminum foil splayed around them. 

 

In that moment, Q takes an assessment of his life: he’s an academically gifted student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, and he’s seeing a fit older man, who by some small miracle seems utterly infatuated with him, not to mention the quasi-new discovery he has a brother and new best friend in Arthur.

 

The world is a good, kind place, at least right now. Q slides down lower in bed and rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder. He just wants to rest his eyes for a moment, but as soon as they shut, he falls into a deep sleep.

 

***

 

It’s difficult to focus in class. 

 

Q has been seeing James for a few weeks now, usually normal dates for lunch or a walk through Harvard Yard, but these meetings always end with them snogging in the man’s car. James has invited him back to his house more than once, though Q always declines because he’s a little frightened — not of James, but everything else. He’s inexperienced and Arthur would be furious if he knew what was going on. Q is terrified of disappointing James with a lackluster performance, and also Arthur once his brother knows the truth.

 

But there’s only so long he can push back the inevitable. He’s been fantasizing constantly about what will happen when he does finally go to James’ house, but he’s aware his imagination is a poor substitute. Mostly, he daydreams of James kissing him on his bed, warm and solid as he presses them into the mattress. That image alone has brought him to climax every day this week while he showers in the morning.

 

When class is over, he lingers at the back of the room, taking his time gathering everything so that it won’t look suspicious that he’s the last one (yet again) to leave. He even pretends to walk for the door, but slows his gait so James will definitely see him.

 

“Uh, Q. May I have a word, please?”

 

He pauses, fighting to keep the smirk from his lips. They have to be careful because closing the door will look suspicious, and there are always students walking through the hallway who might overhear their conversation. Q walks over to his desk: “Yes?” he innocently asks.

 

James smirks, voice pitched low as he leans forward: “Hello, my little dove.”

 

The nickname is new, first tested last night in the backseat of his car, and Q nearly scaled across the man’s lap in response, so James damn well knows the effect it has on him. He finds it unspeakably sexy. 

 

“Hello,” Q smiles, glancing over his shoulder. The doorway is empty and the hallway seems relatively quiet, so he sits on the edge of James’ desk: “What do you have planned tonight?”

 

“I thought a nice dinner…and then perhaps drinks at my home.”

 

Q’s face warms when the prospect of being alone with James in his house is brought up yet again. He smirks: “I’m not old enough to drink in the states.”

 

“Don’t bloody remind me,” James grumbles, “But we’re British, so the rules don’t apply.”

 

“Is that right?” Q asks, smiling, “Well, I don’t want to be rude, so I suppose I’ll accept your invitation.”

 

James grins, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. It’s a bold move — dangerous, even — and the gesture thrills Q. Not for the first time, he’s struck by the magnitude of what James risks by being with him. For starters, he could lose his job.

 

“I’ll be waiting with bated breath,” James says.

 

Q watches with glassy eyes as he leaves the room. When James disappears through the doorway, he finally snaps out of the daze and stands up. He needs to get back to their room and pick out an outfit for tonight.

 

***

 

“I may be out all night, so I don’t want you to worry,” Q says as he pulls out a collared shirt and holds it up to his chest. He turns towards Arthur, who makes a face, so he sighs and returns it to the closet. Honestly, his brother is a pickier dresser than he is, which is sayinga lot. Q tries to go for eccentric hipster — fashionable, but effortless — whereas Arthur is a designer snob.

 

“You’ll be staying over in his room? Is his roommate out of town or something?” Arthur pries.

 

“Yeah,” Q answers quickly, holding up a sweater.

 

Arthur sighs upon seeing that choice. “Let me,” he says, walking over and flipping through the hangers. He makes something like a cooing noise when he discovers a sapphire cashmere sweater, “This is beautiful, Q. Wear this with the dark slacks.”

 

“Cheers,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt so he can slide on the sweater.

 

“When do I get to meet this James, hm?” his brother asks, leaning against the shut door.

 

“Soon, I promise,” he answers reflexively. 

 

This has been his default answer for weeks, and Q knows it won’t buy him time much longer. Arthur is beginning to get suspicious, and rightfully so. After all, he’s been withholding details about his relationship with James out of fear his brother will explode in anger, or maybe even do something extreme like report James to the university out of some misguided attempt to protect him.

 

Thankfully, Arthur doesn’t press the issue right now, perhaps detecting his twin’s nerves are already on edge.

 

“So…” he says, smiling, “Excited for tonight?”

 

The suggestive undercurrent of his words is obvious: tonight is his first time at James’ home and they may have sex. 

 

“Nervous is more the word I’d use,” Q says, pulling at the sweater’s collar and looking at himself in a mirror mounted to the wall. 

 

Arthur approaches his back and smoothes down the fabric along Q’s shoulders. “Don’t be. You’ve already done the difficult part. You met and he likes you, so just relax and have fun,” he says, tone light, but Q can tell his brother is anxious too, “I’ll give you some privacy, but I may call,” he rushes to add, “Just once. At night. To make sure everything is okay.”

 

Q smiles slowly. Arthur is trying very hard to let him be a young man, but he’s having some trouble turning off the protective part of his brain. It must be strange for his brother to have gone from believing he was an only child to not only finding out he had a sibling, but then being placed in a position of sole caretaker. 

 

“I promise I’ll answer this time.”

 

***

 

Dinner is at an expensive restaurant downtown, so they don’t have to worry about running into any students. Even Q’s richer classmates prefer nights of binge-drinking to dropping hundreds of dollars on lobsters and clams. Q is excited because the whole evening feels very adult, and the dinner is a grand gesture by James, who treats it like a proper date, including walking through the restaurant to their table with a hand gently pressed to the small of Q’s back, guiding him along behind the maitre d’.

 

He smirks when the man pulls out his chair for him.

 

“What?” James chuckles as Q sits and he slides the chair back into place, “Can’t an old man be a gentleman for his lovely date?”

 

“You’re just very old-fashioned sometimes,” he says, quickly adding: “It’s sweet.”

 

“Oh, great. I’m sweet,” James mutters, still grinning.

 

James orders an expensive bottle of wine, and Q briefly worries the waiter will ask to see his ID, but apparently being James’ date removes such restraints. He grips the glass stem and swirls around the burgundy liquid before taking a sip. James watches him intensely and he smiles: “It’s very good,” and it is, though Q is no sommelier.

 

“That wine was bottled before you were born, little dove,” he smirks, sipping from the glass.

 

Q looks at the wine in surprise, but soon a wicked grin splits his face: “See? Age is relative. I’m young, but if I was a bottle of wine, I’d be considered expensive and exotic.”

 

James laughs, the sound bright and rich: “Yes, I guess that’s true.”

 

***

 

He’s feeling tipsy and happy by the time they leave dinner, though James seems sober as a priest, which is good because he’s the one driving them back to his home located on a sleepy side street, a regal old structure with stone columns. 

 

“It’s beautiful, James,” he comments as they walk up a path and the man locates the correct key.

 

“Built in 1620. Older than the university,” James says, opening the front door.

 

“More old things,” Q cheekily answers, walking inside. 

 

He’s immediately greeted by a wave of James’ scent, except here it’s ubiquitous and ultra-potent. Q wants to wrap himself in the smell, or fold it and keep it in his pocket so he’ll always have a reminder of him. James lingers by the closed front door, watching in amusement as Q wanders from the living room over to the kitchen, looking around.

 

“Does everything meet your very high standards?” James asks, sliding from his jacket and hanging it on a nearby rack. He helps Q from his coat and does the same.

 

“I thought there’d be more books,” he says, smiling.

 

“Ah..” James answers, taking him by the hand, “This way, little dove,” and pulls him up the stairs to a second floor where the bedrooms are located, along with a study lined ceiling-to-floor with walls of bookshelves.

 

Q grins brightly, walking up to one of the shelves to inspect the collection. “This is more like it,” he laughs, “My father had a collection just like. I mean, he did. Arthur, my brother, gave away a lot of it, which is good, I suppose. Books are meant to be read, aren’t they? They shouldn’t be locked away in a tomb—“ He pauses, realizing he’s babbling. Q blames the wine, but when he turns, James is standing close to him, a soft expression on his face.

 

He stops talking after that.

 

“I’ve thought about you…being here, like this,” the man murmurs, as though waking from a dream.

 

Q’s back presses into the shelves, spines of texts pillowing the collision as James crowds against him, mouth crushing his lips. He whimpers, hands flying up to grip the sides of James’ face, fingertips tracing the day’s worth of stubble before sliding to the back of his crown. He tastes like wine and another wave of intoxication courses through him, this time from a heady mix of James’ smell and overwhelming physical presence.

 

James’ muscular thigh presses forth and his legs part in accommodation, the man’s hip firmly rubbing against Q’s crotch while they kiss.

 

His heart pounds so hard that Q is afraid James will feel how excited he is, and while the man certainly must sense he’s inexperienced, he doesn’t want to come across as a total novice. Alas, simply kissing James is enough for his cock to harden and press against the front of his slacks. James’ lips smack wetly when he pulls back and glances down, a roguish smirk and a twinkle in his eyes: “Shall we move to the bedroom then?” he purrs.

 

Q can only nod helplessly.

 

James takes him by the hand and pulls them from the room, and luckily the master bedroom is directly across the hallway so Q’s legs don’t need to navigate any labyrinths. For that, he’s grateful because he’s lightheaded and when he moves to pull the sweater from his back, notices his fingers are quaking slightly.

 

He pauses, watching James unbutton cuffs and collar, and then slide off the dress shirt to reveal what Q can only describe as his fantasy male physique. James certainly does not look like a typical English professor with his muscular, fit build. Suddenly, Q is consumed by the horrible thought that his body might be unappealing to the man. After all, he is certainly not muscular, his frame located considerably nearer to the term _scrawny_ on the spectrum of body types.

 

James must notice he’s grown pale.

 

“What’s wrong?” he frowns, walking to him and gently cupping his face.

 

The gesture is warm and reassuring, and Q sighs gratefully, eyes slipping shut for a moment. He has to be honest. Otherwise, James will wonder what’s wrong the whole time. 

 

“I’ve never…” he trails off, cowardice preventing him from saying the words aloud.

 

Perhaps he should find the surprised expression on James’ face flattering, an indication he’s done a convincing job playing the part of experienced lover. “Oh…” the man says, for the first time ever looking a bit out of his league, and for a second Q feels sick, wondering if he’s ruined everything. Maybe James won’t want him because it’s too much baggage to deal with a virgin. “Well, in that case,” James purrs, “Let’s go slow, yeah? Tell me if you want to stop, hm?”

 

Q smiles, throat tightening as he gently rests his forehead against James’. He wants to tell the man how enormously grateful he feels, but it feels like too heavy of a topic for the moment.

 

“You’re very sexy,” he whispers instead, hands no longer shaking as he touches the man’s torso, particularly his impressive pectoral muscles.

 

“And you’re beautiful, but I’d very much like to see you without clothes,” the man growls, gripping the bottom of his sweater, and Q obediently raises his arms to help. He feels shy, standing there shirtless, a hand smoothing down his hair, “So beautiful,” James sighs, pressing against him, and it’s so much better like this, feeling hot skin and the powerful muscles beneath. 

 

The man kisses the side of his neck and Q sighs, fingers running through James’ blond hair as he whispers: “Bed…let’s…the bed.”

 

His back hits the mattress hard, bouncing slightly before he stretches out, smiling at the hungry look on James’ face. Evidently, the man very much likes how he looks. James’ hands cover the width of his waist, and it occurs to Q that the man likes his slight build in the same way he enjoys James’ strength. _We’re made for each other_ , he thinks as James dips down to kiss a hot, wet trail from his clavicle, down his chest, descending the ladder of his ribs and across his flat stomach.

 

He’s breathing hard, but the air nearly catches in his throat when James unbuckles the belt and Q lifts his hips from the bed to help him pull off the trousers and underwear. His cock is embarrassingly hard already, leaking slightly from the head, his briefs a bit damp from his excitement. 

 

“Lovely,” James sighs, capable fingers encircling him and stroking slowly.

 

Q moans, palm covering his eyes as he focuses on not immediately coming. He can’t look at James touching his cock, or this will be a very brief sexual romp.

 

Perhaps sensing his distress, James stops stroking him, and chuckles fondly, bending down to kiss between Q’s thighs. 

 

“James…” he sighs, a warning, perhaps a trace of annoyance.

 

“Yes, dove. I’m here.”

 

The sound of a clinking belt buckle draws his attention, and when his hand flies away, Q watches the man disrobe entirely. He’s gorgeous: hipbones a prominent V, a fine trail of hair leading from his belly button to the dark patch surrounding his cock, which is half-hard, and Q looks away quickly again, thinking the only thing more embarrassing than coming from James’ kisses would be ejaculating at the sight of him.

 

The bed dips and James gently pushes open his legs. Q looks at him curiously until the man’s blond head descends.

 

“James, no,” he whimpers, gripping his shoulder.

 

The man makes a soft, soothing sound. “Let me…First time is always a quick round,” he answers, a wry smirk on his lips, and before Q can think of a witty retort the man dips down and swallows him whole.

 

Q cries out, back arching from the bed, fingers furling in blond strands for purchase, and he just barely stops himself from thrusting. He might be inexperienced, but even Q knows doing so would choke him. 

 

“James,” he croaks, toes curling as the man bobs up and down, sucking firmly, expertly swirling his tongue along the underside of his cock.

 

The sac between his legs tightens, but Q no longer feels anxiety about his rapidly approaching climax. James is experienced and knows what he’s doing, fully aware that Q needs a burner round before the main show.

 

“I’m close,” he whispers, a drop of perspiration running down the side of his face.

 

The warning only serves to encourage the man, who sets a firm pace, sucking him so hard that Q is convinced James is going to pull out his orgasm by its roots. He whimpers again, abdominals contracting as he nearly sits up, coming so hard that it hurts, a prolonged groan escaping clenched teeth.

 

James swallows greedily and Q collapses onto the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly as he pants for breath.

 

Q is dimly aware of James kissing along his stomach and chest, and he smiles when the man nuzzles his jawline.

 

“Good?” he asks, unnecessarily because Q is clearly wrecked.

 

“Don’t fish for compliments,” he answers hoarsely, eyes slowly opening so he can see James’ face.

 

He adjusts his glasses and when James tries to remove them from his face, Q gently grips his wrist: “No…I need them to see you,” he admits shyly.

 

James smiles: “Fine by me. I prefer them on you.”

 

Q might blush at that confession because the man chuckles, gently nipping his clavicle, but he’s otherwise quiet and Q briefly wonders why until he glances down and sees James is now fully hard, his cock swaying slightly in front of him, and he’s clearly trying not to press his erection against Q lest the gesture be interpreted as a command.

 

“Let me,” he says softly, pushing against James chest until the man rolls onto his back.

 

“You’re sure?” James asks, but he’s clearly excited, fingers curling in Q’s hair, tugging gently.

 

He smiles slowly, nodding as long fingers encircle his length, stroking experimentally. This part is easy because he’s wanked thousands of times, and Q knows what he likes, so he simply transfers that technique, and James groans appreciatively. The sound thrills Q, bolstering his confidence so he dips down and wraps his lips around the head, experimentally sucking.

 

“Fuck,” James croaks, and Q pulls back just a moment to grin and push back the foreskin so he can tongue the head.

 

Q is circumcised so this part is experimental too, but he must be doing it right because James is practically squirming against the mattress. He presses his tongue against the underside and descends. James freezes and still his length is too much, Q nearly gagging halfway, so he comes up for air and continues stroking the man’s cock.

 

“All right?” James pants.

 

“I’m good…I’m okay,” he says encouraging, dipping back down, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. This time, he gets a little farther and offers a firm suck before coming up for air. Now, James is leaking from the head and he laps it up, his own cock giving an interested twitch at the sharp taste. 

 

He’s been fantasizing about this for so long that Q knows he’ll be fully hard again in moments. One of the privileges of youth.

 

It takes three tries, but Q finally swallows him entirely, lips embedded in the soft nest of hair, and he closes his eyes, inhaling the masculine scent. James carefully strokes is hair, but Q can feel the wild beat of his heart through his cock, and it excites him to know he has this effect on the man. Slowly, he draws back, leaving a wet trail in his wake, and then plunges back down.

 

James shouts, fingers tightening their grip, but Q likes how it feels. He bobs up and down, hand gently cupping the sac and stroking to match the rhythm of his sucking. He’s getting into it, lips making a lewd slurping noise that apparently James enjoys because he answers with a moan every time. 

 

“Q…I’m…” James pants.

 

He understands and quickens the pace, fiercely determined to return the favor. Q wants to taste him because he’s earned this prize — the satisfaction of knowing he’s drawn this from James. Glancing up, James is a mountain, chest heaving, stomach glistening with a sheen of sweat. His eyes slip shut when the first hot burst hits his tongue, and he swallows every drop, only sliding off when he feels James softening in his mouth.

 

Q smiles, about to say something about them being even now, but James kisses him roughly, using his superior weight to wrestle him to the bed. This is the most passionate they’ve ever been, and there’s a jolt of pain when James’ teeth snag his bottom lip, but Q fingers dig fiercely into his back, pulling him close. They kiss for a long time, free to fully explore each other here in the privacy of James’ home, unencumbered by the usual fears of being spotted by prying eyes.

 

He’s surprised when something hard pokes his hip, and when he looks down James’ cock is once again firm. He grins up at the man: “You didn’t swallow a little blue pill earlier, did you?”

 

“No need. I have you,” James murmurs, leaning down to kiss him again. Q closes his eyes, but feels James reaching to the side and hears a drawer slide open. When his eyes open again, James places a small packet of lubricant and a condom against the bedspread. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous…” James says once they’ve separated, watching Q warily, as though afraid he’s overstepped some invisible boundary.

 

“I want to,” he says quickly, cupping his face to guide him down so they can kiss again, “I want to try,” Q says again, concerned that James might be rethinking his plan.

 

“We’ll go slow,” James promises, kneeling between Q’s spread thighs. He nervously watches the man pick up the packet of lubricant and tear it open to coat his fingers. “Legs up, little dove. There’s a lad,” James says encouragingly, stroking his leg before his other hand dips down and the cold, wet fingertips smear between his cheeks.

 

Q inhales sharply at the alien feeling, shaking his head a little when James looks at him in concern: “Just cold,” he explains, smiling self-consciously.

 

James tisks: “Sorry,” and leans down to apologetically kiss his stomach.

 

The friction of James’ fingers warm the lube eventually, but Q trembles for a whole new reason: the man’s finger slowly circling his entrance, experimentally pushing against the tight ring of muscles. He inhales sharply when the finger finally pushes inside, curling and thrusting in exploration.

 

“So bloody tight,” James remarks, sounding slightly amazed.

 

Q can’t speak at all, the tip of his tongue moistening his lips as he focuses on breathing. He moans when James thrusts the finger slowly, testing the limits of his body. When the man sinks a second finger inside, he gasps: “Wait…”

 

James freezes: “All right?” he asks, frowning.

 

He nods, eyes pinched shut a moment: “Mm…just…need a moment,” he whispers. When he gazes down, James looks worried, so he smiles and gently touches the side of his face. “I’m okay. Keep going…”

 

Q sighs, chin lifted and gaze lingering on the ceiling as he focuses on the sensation of James’ fingers working into him, skillfully stretching without causing intense pain. His chest swells with affection because James is clearly taking his time, extremely concerned with his comfort. 

 

James’ free hand slides up his chest, stroking comfortingly. That is, until he reaches Q’s nipple and pinches the little bud, pulling slightly. It’s marvelous: a sharp jolt of pain that makes him gasp, eyes flying back down to James and the wicked grin on his lips. He laughs in surprise, squirming atop James’ fingers, allowing them to sleep deeper and then—

 

He cries out, back arching when an intense throb of pleasure pulsates within him.

 

“There it is,” James observes, firmly rubbing the spot — evidently where Q’s prostate is located.

 

“Bloody hell,” he rasps, laughing again, amazed by the reaction.

 

He strokes his cock, which is wet again and pressed to his belly. Q watches James withdraw his fingers and reach for the condom. The man tears open the foil square with his teeth and rolls on the latex, pausing only to add another dollop of lube to his length and smear it across the shaft.

 

The fully gravity of the situation finally hits him and Q inhales sharply when James returns to the spot between his legs. 

 

“Shh…” James says, stroking his hip and thigh as though he’s a spooked horse.

 

He should feel annoyed, but actually the gesture does provide comfort. Q knows he’s safe with James — that the man would never hurt him.

 

James’ cock is an entirely different beast. The moment the head presses against his entrance, Q knows this is going to feel very different, and though he tells himself to relax — that being tense will only make things worse — he’s still not prepared for how enormous James feels sliding into him. It doesn’t hurt, but he feels so full, as though there’s not an inch of free space in his body — not even for the air that presses out of his lungs. 

 

“Oh…” he moans, eyes rolling in his head until finally James’ hips press against his rear, “…my God,” he quietly finishes.

 

James is braced atop him, the ropey muscles of his forearms pressing against the gleaming flesh. He laughs, but the sound is breathless, and Q can tell from the way the corner of his eye twitches that the man is focusing very intensely on staving off his orgasm.

 

When he squeezes his inner muscles, James groans, bending down to wetly kiss him: “Cheeky…”

 

Q grips his arms, braced before the man moves, slowly undulating his hips. The drag and friction are delicious, sending trills of pleasure through his body, and Q’s mouth drops open as he moans. The sound is muffled when James kisses him, and in turn he swallows the man’s grunts when he thrusts sharply. Q whimpers, drawing back his legs, trying to make it easier for James to move.

 

“James…” he sighs, breathing against the man’s lips. 

 

The pace is more aggressive now, sending jolts up his spine, and yet James nuzzles his cheek gently, and the swell within his chest splits open. He grips James’ back, nails leaving red trails in their wake. He’s close, but making a valiant effort to stave off the inevitable because it feels too good to be over just yet. When James bends down to sink his teeth into the crook of Q’s neck, it’s too much, and a choked groan heralds his second orgasm, cock erupting across his pelvis and belly.

 

His body tenses, which in turn sends James over the edge. The thrusts turn desperate, the man’s breathing ragged, hips shoving forth until they freeze flush against his rear, and Q can tell from the way his body pulls taut like a bow string that he’s coming. The groan that escapes his throat is broken and raw, and James is heavy atop him when he collapses, but the weight feels good even though his legs are bent. Hs strokes his back comfortingly, savoring the stretched, full feeling until James’ cock softens and slides out.

 

Q’s muscles feel like liquid, and he lays there watching as James moves around, tying off the condom and disposing of it in the adjacent master bath before he returns to the bed with a handful of tissues. He scoots over, making room, grinning when James cleans him and then loops an arm around his waist. He ends up half-draped atop the man.

 

“Satisfactory?” James inquires.

 

“Exemplary,” Q replies, grinning.

 

“I’m so glad,” he rumbles, sweeping him onto his back, kissing Q’s laughing mouth.

 

***

 

Q doesn’t answer his phone, so Arthur breaks his promise and calls more than once and texts three times: 

 

_Answer, please_

 

_Q, give me a call_

 

_WHERE ARE YOU?_

 

He’s really beginning to worry, but there’s literally nothing he can do (within reason). He has no idea which house his brother is staying in, and he doesn’t know this freshman, James, he’s been seeing. Beyond calling the police, he’s out of options, and Arthur quickly dismisses that emergency action because Q will never, ever forgive him if he causes a big fuss because he’s feeling like a hysterical mother. 

 

Arthur feels foolish worrying this much about Q, especially because his twin has been having such carefree fun. If his brother isn’t concerned, Arthur shouldn’t be either, and yet he can’t stop fretting over his sibling.

 

To distract himself, he walks to an on-campus coffee shop that’s open late and sits at a table with a piping hot cup of potent brew. 

 

Then he stares at his phone and forgets to drink the coffee.

 

An hour passes and it’s one in the morning when a barista comes by to let him know they’ll be closing in fifteen minutes. “Oh, sure. Sorry, I’m leaving soon,” Arthur says, glancing around the place. At some point, the shop cleared out and he never registered the exodus.

 

He’s pulling on his peacoat when suddenly someone sits down across the way, and when he looks up a man is in the opposite chair, smiling at him.

 

Arthur responds with a furrowed brow: “Yes?” he warily asks.

 

“Thought I’d pop over and say hello. You looked lonely sitting over here,” the stranger answers and Arthur’s brain immediately supplies two helpful labels: _English_ and _asshole_.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes: “Is that your best pickup line?” he sighs, glancing at his phone again. No missed calls from Q. _Fuck_. He wonders how long a person has to be gone to file a missing persons report.

 

“Well, not my _best_ one, no,” the man replies, pouting a bit, “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.”

 

Eyes narrowed, Arthur examines the stranger: he’s perhaps a bit older, a few days’ worth of stubble lining his jaw, and his collar is unbuttoned, revealing the top of a tattoo. Arthur’s diagnosis would be a wash with a bucket of hot water and a scrubbing brush.

 

“I’m not here to talk. I don’t _want_ to talk to you, understand?”

 

For some reason, the man seems tickled pink by his response, and he smiles brightly: “I say, you’re bent out of shape,” he says, and then he must notice Arthur repeatedly glancing at his phone, “Got stood up or something?”

 

Arthur is almost, but not quite, impressed by his observational skills: “My damn brother…He went on a date and I’m worried about him. He hasn’t called—“ Arthur stops suddenly, realizing what he’s just said. The glower returns to his face: “Mind your own business.”

 

“He’s probably just having too much fun to ring,” the man grins, “No need for you to worry your pretty head.”

 

His face grows hot and he spits: “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“Sure I do. Your brother’s having a nice shag and you’re sitting here sexually frustrated.”

 

Lucky for the stranger, the coffee has cooled by the time Arthur picks up his mug and throws it in his face.

 

“Oi!” the man roars but Arthur never looks back. He pockets his cellphone and storms out of the coffee shop.

 

***

 

Q wakes sometime in the middle of the night, his cheek pressed to James’ warm chest. When he lifts his head, the man is gazing down at him and Q smiles: “Were you awake long?”

 

James hums thoughtfully: “About…fifteen minutes.”

 

Q’s heart nearly stops: “Oh no,” he gasps, flying out of bed, hissing: “What time is it? A superfluous question because the bedside clock display is clear as day: 2:15 AM. _Oh no_. He stumbles around for a couple seconds, groping in the dark until nearly stumbling over his slacks. He pulls out his cellphone and winces upon seeing the missed call and texts, “My brother…he wanted me to ring earlier. Do you mind?” he asks, looking at James.

 

The man flips on a bedside lamp, flooding the room with a soft yellow hue. Q holds the trousers in front of his crotch and James smiles slowly: “Of course. Take your time.”

 

He pulls on the trousers and practically runs from the room, and the phone is already ringing by the time he descends the steps. As soon as the other end clicks, he’s mid-sentence, “So sorry, Arthur. I’m _so sorry_. I’m all right. We fell asleep earlier and—“

 

Arthur sighs on the other end: “It’s fine. Q…It’s okay. I was just worried.”

 

His bare feet pace across the main floor, right up to the front door, which Q leans again and gazes out the small glass window at the top: “Did you sleep at all?”

 

“No…I went to get some coffee and assaulted a stranger.”

 

Q blinks owlishly: “Pardon?”

 

“Nothing, I’m okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

He still feels guilty, but moderately better because it doesn’t sound like Arthur plans to hold a grudge: “Sure. I want to tell you about everything.”

 

There’s a slight smile in his brother’s voice when he answers: “I want to hear about everything.”

 

***

 

The next morning, they shower together, another first for Q who feels inexplicably shy in the light of day now that he’s extremely sober. But he relaxes the moment James joins him under the hot spout of water, his solid figure pressed up against Q’s back as he sucks marks into the side of his neck.

 

Q doesn’t want to leave. He likes waking up in James’ bed and seeing his morning rituals, even the banal tasks of shaving and brushing his teeth. They eat toast and drink tea in the kitchen, and even that is lovely. And while he loves his brother, Q isn’t looking forward to waking up in a dorm room twin bed by himself the next morning.

 

James seems to read his mind: “You can stay over as long as you like, Q.”

 

He looks up in surprise to James’ amused face peeking over the top of the newspaper. 

 

“Really? I don’t want to get you in trouble…”

 

“We’ll be discreet.”

 

A slow smile crosses his lips: “Really?” he asks again.

 

“Of course. I don’t know if you noticed, but I rather enjoyed your company,” James says, folding the paper and setting it aside.

 

Q takes that as a cue and stands, walking over to perch atop his lap: “I had noticed,” he whispers, gripping James’ freshly pressed collar and leaning down to kiss him.

 

***

 

The dorm room door opens and Q sheepishly shuffles inside, an apologetic smile (more a wince, really) already on his lips. Arthur is seated at his desk and sighs, smiling slightly at the display. He hates feeling like a nagging parent, and he doesn’t want Q to feel badly for enjoying himself.

 

“I’m glad your body parts aren’t scattered in several states.”

 

“Me too,” Q grins.

 

“Is his dick huge?”

 

The grin widens: “I missed you too.”

 

Q fills him on the details: dinner, followed by drinks in James’ dorm room, followed by several rounds of enthusiastic sex. Arthur is happy for his brother, and genuinely pleased his first intimate experience was an overall positive one, but it is a bittersweet feeling. He’s been so busy lecturing Q about the need to be social that he’s completely forgotten to heed the same advice. Now, his twin has a bonafide boyfriend, which means more nights spent away from their dorm, more time devoted to James.

 

Arthur tries not to think about the smug stranger from last night and how quickly he assessed the situation. His persona must scream sexual repression for someone who doesn’t even know him to pick up on it.

 

“That’s great. I’m happy for you,” Arthur says, sitting on the foot of Q’s bed. His brother occupies the other end, leaning against the corner where the walls meet. 

 

“Hey, what were you saying about assaulting someone?” Q asks.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes at the memory: “Some asshole at the coffee shop. He tried to pick me up.”

 

“Was he cute?” Q grins.

 

He smirks at his twin. “That’s not the point. He’s a sleaze bag.”

 

“So he was fit, hm?”

 

Arthur laughs and picks up a pillow, throwing it at his brother.

 

***

 

Q smiles as he walks down the hall steps after his last class of the day and sees James waiting on the plaza below. 

 

“How did you know I’d be here?” he asks.

 

“I’m faculty. We have access to all students’ schedules.”

 

“Creepy,” Q laughs, “So you’re stalking me.”

 

“Some light stalking, yes,” he says, taking Q’s bag from him, “Now, be quiet and let me be a gentleman so I can drive you home.”

 

Once they hit the parking lot, James slides an arm around his waist and Q leans against him, ignoring the traitorous little voice in the back of his mind that points out they can’t do this in the heart of campus because another student could see them. He tells himself it doesn’t matter that what they share is a secret because it makes them both happy.

 

And he is _very_ happy, whether gazing at James from the back of the classroom, or sitting beside him in the car, or bending over the study desk, pants around his ankles, James behind him buried to the hilt. Things started with some kissing by the stairs and progressed upstairs, but they didn’t quite make it to the bedroom, and now Q’s cheek drags against the desk as he grunts at the end of each push.

 

James is making sexy gasping noises, and Q wants to look over his shoulder to see him, but the angle is _just_ right so he doesn’t want to disturb their positioning. Instead, he reaches between his legs and grips his cock, pumping a fist until he comes across the mahogany surface. He bounces limply at the end of each thrust, drained of energy after their spontaneous romp, and James finishes seconds later. 

 

He’s heavy against his back, kissing the damp hairs at the base of his skull, and Q smirks as the man pulls out slowly. “Do you always carry a spare condom in your pocket?” he teases.

 

“I bloody well do when you’re around, you little minx,” James says, squeezing a bare cheek.

 

It’s easier just to step out of his trousers, and Q grins as he unbuttons his shirt and walks from the study. “I’m going to shower and then we should get dinner,” he decides.

 

“Oh, my treat again?” James teases, fastening his belt, “Aren’t you a billionaire?”

 

Q laughs, turning on the water in the bathroom. When he pokes his head through the door, James is standing at the bedroom door.

 

“I’ll pay, if you like.”

 

“Certainly not,” James smirks, winking before he disappears, “I need to make a phone call. Take a nice long shower, little dove!”

 

He capitalizes on the offer, luxuriating in the hot water and spacious shower, and afterwards towels off, wrapping the terry cloth around his waist. Only then does it occur to him that his underwear is located in the study, and it’s too soiled to change into anyway. Q pads into the bedroom and opens the top bureau drawer, but only socks are located inside, so he opens the next drawer down and flips through James’ underwear, searching for a slightly smaller option — something with forgiving elastic that might have a chance at clinging to his slender hips.

 

His fingertips touch something cold and hard, and when he pulls the foreign item into view, he sees it’s a gun.

 

“Need help finding something?”

 

Q gasps and quickly sets it down atop a pile of briefs, “Sorry, I wasn’t snooping. I need some pants.” 

 

James smiles slightly and reaches into the back of the drawer, pulling out a dark pair of boxer shorts, “These might fit,” he says, handing them to Q.

 

“Cheers,” he says quietly, gaze locked on the gun, “Why do you have that?”

 

James carefully conceals the gun again in the drawer: “Protection.”

 

“Do you know how to shoot it?”

 

“Of course,” he chuckles, “Wouldn’t be much use otherwise, hm? Come on, get dressed. I’m taking you out.”

 

Q smiles and hurries to change, distracted by the idea of another night out with James, which of course is a deliberate diversion tactic, but he doesn’t realize it at the time.

 

***

 

Arthur has finished his assignments for the week, and studied as much as any reasonable human being can be expected to, and still it’s only 7:30 in the evening. He glares at the wristwatch, resentful of the minutes and how slowly they insist upon passing. He imagines every student at Harvard at some massive party that only he is not invited to because Arthur is too serious — because Arthur was forced to grow up too quickly.

 

He reflexively picks up the cell phone, but then pockets it before he can text Q.

 

 _Don’t drag him down with you_.

 

It’s too early to go to bed, and he doesn’t have any friends other than his brother, so he does the only other thing he can think of: Arthur grabs his jacket, ties his shoes, and heads back to the coffee shop.

 

This time, it’s full of students, and the same female barista is working from the last time Arthur patronized the shop. She eyes him warily as he approaches the counter and flashes an apologetic smile as if to say _don’t worry, I won’t be heaving coffee at you_. He orders a small soy latte and takes his order to a vacant table located at the back of the shop.

 

He sits at the table and pulls out his phone again. 7:45 PM: no texts or phone calls from his brother. He should have brought his laptop to get some coding done, but lately he’s felt too uninspired to even do that. Arthur sighs and sets his phone down with the screen facing the tabletop, hoping time will pass more quickly if he’s not obsessively watching the clock. 

 

Idly, he wonders why Q has been avoiding introducing him to his boyfriend. Maybe he’s afraid of Arthur being a third wheel or spoiling their mood.

 

The scraping of chair legs pulls him from the self-loathing stupor. When he looks up, the tattooed stranger is sitting beside him, hands raised in surrender: “I come in peace.”

 

Arthur quirks a brow: “Did I not make myself clear last time?”

 

“Oh you did, darling. I’m just intrigued enough to withstand the abuse.”

 

At the very least, this is an interesting way to pass the time, so Arthur is hesitant to heave his beverage in the man’s smirking face.

 

“What’s intriguing?”

 

“You. Sulking over here.”

 

“I’m not sulking.”

 

“So this is your natural state?”

 

Arthur smirks: “Who are you, anyway?”

 

“Terribly sorry. Eames,” he says, extending a hand.

 

His gaze slides from the offered fingers back to the man’s face: “Arthur.”

 

The hand drops, grin glued in place: “Arthur,” he repeats in a wholly inappropriate way.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes before something embarrassing happens, like him blushing. He’s not accustomed to receiving this kind of attention, possibly because of the icy rays he emits that ward off uninvited guests.

 

“Is that your last name?”

 

“It is, pet.”

 

Arthur ignores the inappropriate nickname: “So it’s really Mr. Eames then, right?”

 

Eames hums like he’s just tasted a delicious chocolate: “I rather like how that sounds when you say it.”

 

“What’s your first name?”

 

“Why don’t you rattle off some and we’ll choose the one that sounds the best?”

 

He picks up his phone and glances at the time again: 8:00 on the dot, but this time the minutes have passed in the blink of an eye. For that reason alone, he’s hesitant to shoo away Eames again. At the very least, he’s an amusing way to kill time.

 

A memory visits him: his brother sprawled in bed, reading aloud from _Walden_ : 

 

_As if you could kill time without injuring eternity._

 

Eames eyes him for a moment before asking: “Still worrying about the brother, hm? Are you the eldest?”

 

“We’re twins,” Arthur sighs, setting aside his phone.

 

“ _Really_ …” Eames leers.

 

Arthur smirks: “Non-identical.”

 

“Oh,” he sighs, clearly disappointed, “Makes sense, though. Wouldn’t be fair if two of you were walking around, ignoring your sexual appeal.”

 

He leans back in the chair, thoughtfully eyeing Eames. He’s not built like a typical college student. Actually, he looks like a bit of a brawler — maybe a former boxer, or something — and he’s dressed in hideous secondhand garments. At least, Arthur hopes he picked them up at a thrift store and Eames did not, in fact, pay full price for them.

 

“What year are you?”

 

Eames grins, clearly pleased he’s sucked Arthur into conversation: “Junior, love. Visual arts major.”

 

Arthur sneers: “Have fun living in debt.”

 

“I shall, petal. Have fun slowly dying in your soulless corporate world.”

 

Eames’ eyebrows quirk, along with the corners of his full mouth. He’s completely unaffected by Arthur’s cruelty, and he sort of respects him for it.

 

“How do you know I’m not an arts major?” Arthur asks. Eames simply stares pointedly at him — at his waistcoat and dress shirt buttoned along his throat — and he grins, nodding: “Fair enough.”

 

“Go for a walk with me,” Eames says, leaning forward in his seat, and it’s aggressive body language that Arthur couldn’t deny excites him a little. 

 

This whole interaction is so strange that he finds it a bit intoxicating, certainly more interesting than sitting alone in his room and worrying about Q. 

 

“Okay,” he answers simply, standing to pull on his jacket.

 

Eames is temporarily stunned, but recovers quickly enough, zipping up his (of course) leather jacket. “Brilliant,” he grins toothily, revealing crooked teeth.

 

***

 

He quickly texts Q: _Walking with some weirdo. If you don’t hear from me by end of night, call police_ , as they pass a fountain that’s been turned off due to plunging temperatures. 

 

Eames notices him typing and comments: “What’s your obsession with the brother?”

 

Hands stuff back into his pockets and Arthur glowers at him: “I’m not obsessed. He’s my only family. I just worry about him.”

 

“Parents dead?” he asks, and when Arthur nods slightly, he hums: “Mine too.”

 

He looks over at Eames. Now that his awful outfit is hidden beneath the jacket, Arthur can focus more on his face, which in its profile is rather striking. Grecian, almost. 

 

“How did yours die?”

 

Eames shrugs: “Dunno. They were just gone. I’m assuming they’re dead because it’s easier. You?”

 

“Car accident.”

 

They pause by the fountain, Eames resting a boot on the concrete lip as Arthur looks inside. There’s something sad about a dormant fountain, or maybe that’s just how Arthur looks at the world — as events in permanent decay because the one element in his life that should have been stable was yanked away from him. 

 

Eames suddenly shivers and says, “Let’s go back to my place,” and when Arthur rolls his eyes, he smirks, adding: “I live close and it’s bloody freezing, darling.”

 

“You never quit, do you?”

 

“We’ll just talk…maybe have some drinks.”

 

“Oh, and now it’s drinks too.”

 

Laughing in delight, Eames pushes off the ledge and stands atop it, walking parallel to Arthur, balanced on the edge. “You must learn to trust your fellow man, Arthur,” he says, purring the name.

 

He pauses and inhales deeply, gazing across the dark campus. The idea of returning to his room is somewhat more despairing (and less intriguing) than seeing wherever Eames lives.

 

“Fine, but if you try anything, I reserve the right to stab you.”

 

Eames grins: “Deal.”

 

***

 

Unsurprisingly, Eames’ home is underwhelming. It’s not unusual for upperclassmen to find cheap living arrangements off campus, but even by those standards Eames is slumming it. When Arthur pulls open the screen door, it nearly comes off the hinges entirely, and Eames pushes past him to right it as he mumbles: “Been meaning to fix that.”

 

The house is ranch-style: one-floor, mostly living room, which is decorated with furniture probably purchased at a flea market. There’s a small television resting on the floor and a large trunk that serves as a coffee table positioned in front of a ratty couch.

 

Arthur wrinkles his nose upon seeing the room, but Eames completely misses his displeased display because he breezes into the kitchen.

 

“What’re you drinking, darling?”

 

A deep sigh escapes from the depths of his soul: “Martini. Dry.”

 

Eames appears in the doorway: “So a glass of vodka it is.”

 

Arthur smirks, warily eyeing the couch for a moment before he sits on the very edge, afraid if he leans back all manner of creatures will crawl out of the fabric and attach to his superior Gucci threads. Eames reemerges a second later, carrying two mugs, one of which he hands to Arthur. The facade is cracked between a painted image of two goggly eyes, and Arthur examines it with a furrowed brow before realizing it’s Cookie Monster. _Charming_.

 

“Cheers,” Eames smiles, sitting beside him and clinking their mugs together.

 

Arthur watches him take a generous gulp. He can tell it’s the really cheap vodka because it smells like paint thinner. Instead of daring a gulp, he pulls out his cellphone and peeks at the screen again. No missed calls.

 

“When did they die?” Eames asks.

 

“Um, last year. Right before we started school.”

 

Eames winces in empathy. “Still…better than if you both were small. Trust me, love. Foster care is rough on sprogs.”

 

He rotates the mug slowly on his palm. “Is that what happened to you? Foster care?”

 

His head tilts back as he polishes off the vodka and triumphantly sets the empty mug on the trunk. “Bloody depressing, that business. Tell me a secret.”

 

Arthur grins slowly: “What?”

 

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” Eames says, leaning back on the couch and draping his arm along the back, fingertips hovering dangerously close to the back of Arthur’s neck.

 

He should tell Eames to go to hell, or keeping with their ongoing theme, throw the vodka in his face. It’s a bold, presumptuous request because Arthur doesn’t know him. Then again, Arthur doesn’t know anyone other than Q because he’s made it his business to hide — to submerge himself in a world of study and research because the idea of getting close to people frightens him.

 

“Sometimes, I hate my parents for dying.” Eames’ eyebrow elevate to comedic heights and he laughs at himself: “You asked.”

 

“My goal is to get you to say something that isn’t bloody depressing.”

 

Arthur laughs: “Fine. You go.”

 

Eames tilts his head, squinting across the room as he considers the question: “When I was eight, I stole some sweets and when the shop owner realized they were missing, I blamed another little boy named Michael, and he got in loads of trouble.”

 

“Traitor,” Arthur mumbles, daring to take a sip of the vodka. It burns on the way down and he pulls a face.

 

“Never said the truth is glamorous,” Eames chuckles.

 

He nearly bolts off the couch when his phone vibrates. Arthur raises a finger — the international signal for _one second_ — and Eames gives him a thumbs up in return, so he hurries as far as the kitchen before answering.

 

“Arthur,” Q sighs, sounding infinitely relieved, “Bloody hell. That text scared the hell out of me. Where are you?”

 

“I’m with that guy I told you about,” he whispers.

 

A conspicuous pause: “The one you _attacked_?”

 

“I did not _attack_ him. It was self-defense.”

 

“Yet now you’re spending time with him.”

 

It’s a valid point, which is why Arthur doesn’t want to address it. “Anyway, I’m fine. How’s _James_?” he asks, rolling his eyes at Q and his epic love affair.

 

“Great,” Q sighs and Arthur can almost see his smiling, dopey face.

 

Up until this point, Arthur had assumed the spike of jealousy he feels every time Q talks about James was because a stranger had taken his brother from him, but now Arthur realizes there’s a whole other layer of envy: his twin’s romance. Arthur wouldn’t even know how to approach finding what Q has because it would entail making himself vulnerable, and that’s just not an option right now. 

 

Following their parents’ death, Arthur acquired steel scales just so he could walk around every day.

 

“I’ll talk to you later,” Arthur says, quickly hanging up. He storms back into the main room and sits heavily on the couch, “I don’t understand people,” he mutters, shoving the phone back into his jacket pocket, which he’s still wearing — partly because he’s waiting for Eames to be inappropriate, forcing him to flee into the darkness of the night.

 

It has not escaped his attention that Eames is now holding the Cookie Monster mug, working on glass two of pure vodka. He takes a sip and rasps: “How have the peasants offended you, my liege?”

 

Arthur ignores the question’s phrasing because he’s being ridiculous: “My brother met some guy and now he’s acting…” he trails off, searching for an accurate description of what has happened to his twin.

 

“Happy?” Eames offers, amending along the way as Arthur shoots him various hostile glares: “Excited? Aroused? Youthful?”

 

“ _Irrational_ ,” Arthur spits.

 

“Yes, well, love does that to a person.”

 

Arthur frowns deeply. He’s never considered that his brother might be in love, but it makes sense — the way he vanishes for days at a time, how he seems distant even when they’re together, the way he lights up whenever his precious _James_ calls him.

 

“He hasn’t even introduced us.”

 

“Can’t imagine why. You’re such a warm person—“ Eames reaches out, grabbing his wrist when Arthur stands up, “I’m _joking_. For fuck’s sake, Arthur. What does it take to get you to relax, darling?”

 

“More than liquor,” Arthur says, yanking his wrist free, “I’m leaving.”

 

He storms towards the front door, angry with Eames and embarrassed by his visceral reaction. Suddenly, the room feels too small, the air too stale to breathe. 

 

“Arthur!” Eames calls after him — for the second time at the tail end of their second meeting, and just like the first time, Arthur ignores him and leaves.

 

***

 

He’s been trying to leave for the past forty minutes — or projecting the illusion of trying to leave. Q rather enjoys the way James keeps dragging him back into bed, pinning limbs in place with his solid weight, the kisses he splays across his mouth and neck insistent but sweet in way that makes him feel warm all over. They’re both dressed, but judging by James’ groping hands, the man is working to liberate them from those restraints.

 

“I have to go…I have assignments,” he smiles, wrists pinned above his head.

 

“Bring them here. It’s nice and quiet. Better than the library,” James murmurs, nosing at his jawline and lifting his chin to kiss along the underside.

 

His eyes slip shut and Q sighs as he carefully considers the offer, which is tempting, but Arthur is no doubt worried. Only when James releases one of his wrists to tug at the top button of the collar does Q finally wriggle out of his grasp, grinning when a sulking expression crosses James’ face.

 

“My brother is probably worried. He still wants to meet you.”

 

The flicker of trepidation in James’ gaze is the first signal he’s overstepped. Q has been carrying on, pretending as though there are no limitations to their relationship, when in fact their status is purely defined by those boundaries: where they can and cannot be together, who can and cannot know about the affair. This thing between them that has given him life is a secret, and can only ever be a secret.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, dove,” James whispers gently, which makes Q feel like a child, and he instantly bristles, but instead of addressing the ugly beast looming before them, he pivots:

 

“Were you in the military?”

 

James is clearly stunned, back arched, his chest and stomach keeping Q pinned in place, though he pulls back to examine his face with a furrowed brow. 

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“I’m good with computers,” he answers vaguely, editing the parts about being a world class hacker, and the obsession with looking into James’ past.

 

“I’ll bet you are,” James smirks, shaking his head slightly, “And yes, I was. A long time ago. SAS, to be precise.”

 

“I know. You’re very decorated. A Victoria Cross, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

James releases his other wrist and moves to the side, kneeling beside him on the mattress. He looks a bit pale, and as Q rolls onto his side to watch him, he almost feels guilty. 

 

“That’s right,” he murmurs, “Did quite a bit of research, didn’t you?”

 

Q wants to say that he had to investigate on his own because James tells him so little about his life, but he doesn’t, instead asking: “Why did you leave?”

 

James climbs out of bed, smoothing his hands along the front of his sweater: “It’s best if we don’t discuss this.”

 

He frowns and sits up in bed. Q is accustomed to James being charmingly evasive, but this is the first time he’s seen him assertively dismissive, and the reaction is unnerving. 

 

“But why—“

 

“ _Q_ ,” James growls, too forcefully, and he must notice the way it makes his shoulders tense because he immediately adds in a softer voice: “Enough. I don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t think it’s wise for us to be careless. It’s one thing for you to be here, with me, but I can’t meet your brother.”

 

Something in the atmosphere shifts — perhaps it has to do with their positioning: James standing, towering over him a bit, Q curled up on the bed like a chastised child. The man’s condescending tone angers him, and he climbs off the bed so at the very least they’re eye level when he says: “So the plan is to hide me in dark restaurants and in your house?”

 

The flash of anger across James’ face is new and it frightens him: “I didn’t hear you complaining when I spent hundreds of dollars on dinner.”

 

Q sneers and turns from him storming from the room, “Save your money! I’m off…”

 

He thunders down the steps, picking up speed as James charges after him. He’s seized by the absurd fear James might grab or strike him even though the man has never shown violent tendencies, but suddenly feels as though he doesn’t know James — maybe never knew him. The only certainty is the man has secrets and carries a gun, and he wants Q to be his dirty little secret.

 

Q feels sick, but at least when he grabs his messenger bag from beside the front door, James doesn’t try to physically stop him.

 

He’s furious at the hot tears in his eyes, so carefully keeps his back to James: “Sorry I inconvenienced you,” he spits, aware of the dramatics, but unwilling to be rational as his heart splits in two.

 

“Q…” James sighs, and he’s glad there’s sadness in the man’s voice.

 

He wants them to be on the same level for once.

 

The front door slams shut behind him and he hurries into the cold afternoon, not proud of the small piece of him that prays James will come chasing after him.

 

***

 

Arthur is engrossed in coding when the jangling of keys in the lock heralds Q’s return. He doesn’t look away from the laptop’s screen as he says, “Well, look who emerges from the lovers’ nest,” until there’s a conspicuous pause, and when he looks over, his brother is standing there, fingertips partially obscuring his mouth. He’s never seen Q cry, but his twin’s eyes are red, along with the tip of his nose. He quickly stands up: “What’s happened?”

 

Q shakes his head, not refusing to speak, but simply because he can’t get the words out. He’s too upset.

 

Arthur walks up to him and touches his face, first his forehead and then his cheek. The skin is cold from outdoors, but beneath that is warmth, like Q is a furnace ready to explode. 

 

“Sit down,” he says gently, pulling him over to Q’s bed. 

 

They sit side-by-side and Arthur waits until his brother can speak, but even then his voice wavers: “I lied to you…before,” he begins, and Arthur remains stock-still, silent, somewhat afraid if he moves too suddenly or interrupts his brother will shake to pieces before his very eyes, “James isn’t a student. He’s my English professor. We’ve been seeing each other, and I’m in love with him, but…I don’t think he’s interested in a public relationship.”

 

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment, and when he looks at his brother again Q is staring back, wounded and terrified. 

 

All this time everyone’s been saying he’s too protective and paranoid, but now his twin may have thrown away his promising academic career for some affair that won’t last more than a few months. 

 

“I don’t believe this…” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The pulsing at the back of his skull heralds a migraine, “You’ve been lying to me for months, Q.”

 

“I know, I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

 

The heat radiating from his cheeks spreads south beneath the starched collar. He stands quickly, walking to the window to press his palm against the cool glass. All this time, he thought they were building a rapport, maybe even a brotherly relationship, but it turns out he was the one reaching while Q was busy pulling away. Yes, his brother seems contrite now that the happy little love affair is falling apart, but perhaps he laughed with James all these months about his stupid, naive twin.

 

“You always think you’re so much smarter than me,” Arthur mutters, glancing back to the bed, “I suppose you thought I’d never figure it out.”

 

“That’s not true. Arthur, I need help. I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I have to see James every week and I know he’s going to try and speak with me—“

 

Arthur barks with laughter: “Oh, and now you want me to bail you out of trouble?”

 

Q’s jaw tightens: “Stop with this martyr act, goddammit. It’s not my fault you’re isolated and miserable.”

 

As soon as he’s said them, Arthur can tell his brother regrets the words, but it’s too late. He holds up his hand when Q attempts to say something next, cutting him off to fetch his jacket and quickly leave because Arthur can’t stand to be in the room a second longer. The walls are closing in and every part of the campus feels too small: the room, the hallway, even the quad outside has grown unbearable, frozen grass blades crunching beneath his boots like shards of glass.

 

Arthur breathes hard, greats bursts of white air exploding past his lips like steam from an engine. He doesn’t know where he’s going until the lights of the university are dim on the horizon behind him and he sees Eames’ porch lights ahead.

 

 _Of course_ , he thinks, resigned and relieved all at once.

 

His fingers are freezing and the knuckles ache when he raps on the door. Three seconds later, the door opens and Eames is standing there in an orange bathrobe and a confused look on his face.

 

“Darling,” he declares, surprised.

 

Arthur walks past him into the warmth of the house, rubbing his bare fingers together to regain some of the feeling: “Are you busy? I had a fight with my brother and I didn’t know where to go…”

 

“Not at all,” Eames says, closing the door and turning with a flourish, the bathrobe flaring slightly to reveal lime green boxer shorts, “Shall I make us drinks?”

 

“Please,” Arthur sighs, taking a seat on the couch. This time, he reclines onto the cushions, uncaring if fleas and bed bugs infest his jacket pockets. 

 

Eames returns a moment later with two mugs — different ones, a Christmas-themed mug with little trees and another that shouts _Best Dad Ever!_ Arthur takes the latter, secretly (and sincerely) hoping Eames is not a father. 

 

“Now, tell me all about this quarrel.”

 

Arthur takes a large pull from the cup, scrunching up his face at the burn. He most certainly does not want to relive his conversation with Q, so instead he asks: “Do you think I’m isolated and miserable?”

 

Being a smart man, Eames knows better than to approach that question head on: “I don’t really know you, love, but you do walk around with a scowl firmly planted on that lovely face of yours.”

 

He sighs, slumping a bit, downing a bit more vodka. It doesn’t burn as much this time on the way down: “I wasn’t always this way, but I have to be the responsible one. Q’s sort of on his own planet, and I know how much our education meant to my parents.”

 

Eames nods, humming thoughtfully: “Understandable, but you mustn’t neglect your needs.”

 

The cold has evaporated from his skin, replaced by a pleasant warmth that coats every limb. He smiles slowly: “And I suppose you’d see to my needs.”

 

His companion visibly perks up at the teasing, flirty tone of Arthur’s words. This is the first thing he’s said to Eames that isn’t outright hostile or snide. Eames looks fascinated, smiling happily as his gaze roams across Arthur’s face: “You have dimples,” he observes.

 

Arthur used to smile all the time — at least, he thinks he did. There was a time when he had lots of friends and played sports, and people really did like him, but he forgets how to walk around without the weight of the world on his shoulders. In fact, it’s only here, on this terrible couch with shady Eames that he feels free to smile, dimples and all.

 

He launches forward, grabbing Eames by the back of the neck and roughly kissing his mouth. In the process, he drops the mug on the floor, and it lands heavily, but doesn’t shatter, though vodka splatters across the wooden floor. Eames doesn’t appear to mind, however, because he’s in the process of moaning into his mouth and clawing at Arthur’s ass, pulling him until he’s straddling the Brit’s lap.

 

This is a mistake, but currently it feels like a mistake Arthur needs to make lest he explode or shake apart into dust. 

 

He yanks open the robe, clawing and groping, begrudgingly admitting to himself that Eames is extremely hot, and he noticed that quality the second they first met. Arthur grips his crotch, fondling the man’s half-hard cock through his boxers, pleased that it’s a generous length. Eames is panting heavily, wrestling off Arthur’s jacket, then working on the buttons of his shirt, and it occurs to him then that the man intends to continue in their current location.

 

“You are not fucking me here,” he gasps after pulling away, “Where’s your bed?”

 

“So bloody demanding,” he growls, and to Arthur’s delight, picks him up off the couch. In the process, the second mug tumbles to the floor, but Eames ignores it, carrying him across the living room. Arthur flails for a moment before wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist, looping his arms around the man’s neck. He’s impressed by the feat of strength, and more than a little turned on, so he rewards him with another kiss.

 

Eames moans, licking lasciviously into his mouth and separating with a nip to Arthur’s lower lip. He hasn’t had sex in a very long time and lately Arthur has been too busy and distracted to even masturbate, so he’s already rock hard by the time Eames deposits him on the mattress. The springs squeak noisily under his weight and Arthur huffs disapprovingly. The neighbors are going to be able to hear them fuck. He glances around the room, frowning, observing the eclectic collection of furniture and various clashing prints.

 

“Everything you own is hideous,” he sighs, stretching out on his back, spine arched, fully aware the front of his trousers are tented, and Eames is hungrily eyeing the bulge.

 

“You’re here,” Eames points out, shedding the robe and sliding from his boxer shorts.

 

Arthur watches him, reflexively squirming when Eames’ cock pops past the elastic waistband and bobs in the air.

 

“You don’t own me,” Arthur teases, watching the man stoop to remove his shoes and socks. He assists by unbuttoning his dress shirt and sliding out of it. 

 

“Isn’t that how this works?” Eames murmurs, unbuckling the belt and sliding pants and underwear from his legs. He pauses to enjoy the view, worshipfully stroking Arthur’s thighs, “I put my cock in you and then I own you.”

 

He laughs, too loudly, but the sound delights Eames, who grins crookedly in response and grips his cock, stroking slowly.

 

“No…it’s not,” Arthur pants, head hitting the mattress, and eyes slipping shut, “Go easy. It’s been a while.”

 

The man makes a soft sympathetic noise and kisses the curve of Arthur’s neck. “I can see that, love.” It’s true: he’s already rigged and leaking onto his stomach, and if Eames doesn’t fuck him soon, it’s going to be a very early night. When he hears crinkling, Arthur opens his eyes and sees Eames drop a condom onto the bed.

 

“Entertain often?” he rasps.

 

Eames grins: “No need for jealousy. I assure you, I’ve been enduring a bit of a dry spell.”

 

He can’t think of a witty retort— in fact, he’s not really sure how Eames can still be stringing together full sentences because he’s hard too, and it’s really not fair they’re not on the same level. Arthur reaches out and grips his cock, stroking demandingly until Eames swears under his breath. _That’s better_.

 

But just when he’s feeling victorious, Eames releases his dick, pulls away, and flips Arthur onto his stomach — rather effortlessly, which is annoying and vaguely embarrassing because he flails for a moment before Eames’ hands find his hips and pull Arthur onto his knees. “What are you doing—?” Arthur growls, biting off the words when Eames’ hot tongue runs between his cheeks, “Oh…” he groans, immediately slumping onto his forearms and arching his back to give him better access.

 

Eames chuckles, the sound vibrating through his frame, the hot tip teasing his entrance, circling before he thrusts deeply and Arthur cries out. He’s never done this before, but it feels incredible, fingers groping at the comforter and clinging to the fabric for purchase as the man pistons his tongue in and out of Arthur’s depths. This is not something one does with a virtual stranger, and Arthur knows he should feel ashamed or concerned by Eames’ readiness to leap into bed with him, but all he can feel in this moment is enormous gratitude.

 

Finally, _finally_ he feels something outside of sadness and anger.

 

“Oh fuck…oh my God,” he whimpers, thighs spreading apart, hips desperately bucking to rub the tip of his cock against the bedspread, “Shit, Eames. Stop. Please, stop.”

 

Though he begs for a reprieve, Arthur still whines in objection when Eames pulls away, the lovely warmth of his mouth replaced with cold air. A second later, he hears the crinkling of the condom, and his body again warms with anticipation. Something moves in his peripheral — Eames, reaching into a bedside drawer for a tube of lubricant. 

 

“I never do this,” Arthur whispers, feeling the need to state that for some reason.

 

“I know, darling,” Eames replies, and he doesn’t detect any sarcasm in the statement.

 

Eames is gentle, and for that he’s grateful, when he presses the first finger inside. Arthur breathes, pushing back slowly, reacquainting his body with the sensation of being breached. He hasn’t done this a lot, but he’s experienced enough to know how to make his body relax so that Eames can slide a second finger inside and work him open gently.

 

“Good boy,” Eames sighs, his free hand groping Arthur’s cheek and pulling it to the side to create more room.

 

Arthur’s forehead pressed to the bed as he moans, rocking gently to meet Eames’ hand as his body gradually loosens, “Okay…now, do it now, Eames,” he pants.

 

He’s empty and cold again for a few seconds before the head of Eames’ cock nudges against his entrance, pushing determinately until the crown is inside. The man swears against his spine, Eames’ half-draped atop him, and it feels incredible, the weight against his back combined with the sensation of being so full. With all that is so uncertain and chaotic in his life, it’s a small mercy to be authoritatively anchored in place.

 

Eames pushes inside in a single thrust and Arthur cries out, the sound a broken sob, and he’s shocked by the rawness of his own voice. The man freezes against him, gripping the back of his neck, the thumb stroking his skin: “Arthur…” he grunts, clearly concerned.

 

“I’m okay,” he rasps, “C’mon…” Arthur squirms as best he can, inner muscles milking Eames’ cock in a way that he knows will motivate him to move.

 

It works like a charm, Eames gasping and swearing colorfully against the nape of his neck, mouthing at the skin, hips still flush against his ass when he thrusts sharply. Arthur cries out, jarred to his core, the pressure against his prostate sending a jolt up his spine.

 

“Oh fuck…like that,” he moans.

 

“Yes,” Eames agrees, biting his shoulder as he thrusts again.

 

A burst of light fills his vision and Arthur shouts again, clawing desperately at the blankets, attempting to scramble onto his knees. Eames allows it, moving also to kneel behind him and grip his waist. Hips clap against his rear, Arthur’s mouth dropping open in a silent cry as Eames fucks him, the bed’s frame violently shaking, squeaking springs drowning out the wet, lewd push of the man’s cock.

 

He wants to tell Eames not to stop, but can’t speak beyond inarticulate cries and grunting. Arthur is liberated in his powerlessness now that he has allowed himself this one weakness. His eyes shut, an image flickering on the backs of his eyelids: Q on his bed, reading from that damn book: _Things do not change; we change._

 

“Arthur…” 

 

He recognizes the warning in Eames’ voice. Arthur nods weakly, hand jammed between his pelvis and the mattress so he can jerk his length quickly, timing it to the rhythm of Eames’ desperate bucking.

 

Arthur comes first, but only five seconds before Eames, whose breath is hoarse and ragged, sporadic explosions against Arthur’s damp spine. He collapses to the bed, grunting when the man lands atop him. He’s too weak to command him to move, and quite honestly the pressure feels nice — reassuring in a damnably strange way.

 

Eventually, Eames rolls off him, pulling out, leaving him empty and cold. He’s aware of the man moving around, probably cleaning up after them, and he picks up his head when something cool and damp touches his thigh. Eames is kneeling beside him cleaning him with a washcloth. 

 

“Don’t,” Arthur says quickly, grabbing the cloth from him. For some reason, the gesture feels far too intimate, even though they’ve just had sex. 

 

“Sorry…I thought—“

 

“I can do it,” Arthur says, adding: “Thank you,” as he flashes a small, awkward smile.

 

“As you like, darling,” Eames says, stretching out along the bed, back braced against some pillows. He looks pleased with himself, a dopey grin on his lips, and Arthur simply smirks at him as he cleans up.

 

Eames watches him for a moment: “What did you and your dear brother fight about?”

 

Now that their delightful distraction has faded, the stark reality descends upon him once more, and he sighs: “He’s been lying to me. He said he was seeing a student named James, but he’s actually his English professor.”

 

The man stares at him for a few moments, thumb rubbing the tips of his fingers: “Professor Bond?”

 

Arthur frowns, looking at him. The washcloth is a cold, alien growth in his palm. “Yes…You know him?”

 

Eames sighs heavily, crown resting against the wall, “He’s a bit infamous, Arthur. He was suspended a few years ago for sleeping with a student.”

 

Arthur feels ill, staring at Eames to make absolutely sure he’s not joking, but the man simply looks sad and a little wary. “ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur gasps, dropping the cloth and immediately yanking on his clothes: underwear and trousers, pulling on his shirt and buttoning as quickly as he can, rolls on his sock, but he can’t find the other one, so he drops to his hands and knees and checks under the bed. There he finds his second sock balled in a tight wad.

 

Eames stands and pulls on the terrible robe: “What are you doing?”

 

“I have to go talk to Q, my brother. He’s in love with this asshole. He has to know…”

 

“Do you think that’s wise?”

 

“ _Stay_ out of it,” Arthur hisses, tying his shoes and hurrying into the living room to fetch his jacket.

 

“Oh, are we back to hostile strangers now?” Eames cries, following him into the other room and then the front door.

 

Arthur ignores him as he checks his cell phone for messages. It was wrong to come here when his brother was so upset. He shouldn’t have made the drama about him. Even when Q turned nasty, he should have withstood the onslaught and stayed clear-minded. He should have helped him think of a solution.

 

Eames somehow detects his self-destructive mindset. The man sighs, adjusting the robe’s sash: “You know, it’s all right to be human, Arthur.”

 

He looks up sharply and glares at him: “Stay out of my personal business.”

 

The walls are up again and they both know it. Eames clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and smirks: “Lovely. Brilliant. See you during the next meltdown, Arthur.”

 

“Fuck you,” he snarls, charging out of the house.

 

***

 

“Arthur?”

 

Q’s head pokes around the corner when he enters the room, and Arthur immediately experiences an overwhelming wave of guilt. His twin’s eyes are red behind lenses, and he looks years younger dressed in gingham pajamas. 

 

“Hey…” he sighs, sitting beside him on the bed, “I’m sorry I stormed out like that.”

 

“I was really worried. I thought you hated me,” Q whispers, frowning, “Where’d you go?”

 

Arthur briefly thinks of Eames swaddled in his robe: “I went to a friend’s house. Listen, I have to tell you something.”

 

Q eyes him warily: “Go on…”

 

He relays the information because even though he doesn’t know the man very well, he can’t think of a reason Eames would lie to him, and he certainly hadn’t seemed like he was plucking the knowledge from thin air. 

 

Q swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to stymie the flow of tears: “Your friend is certain?” Arthur sees the cracked mug of vodka and Cookie Monster’s googly eyes. Despite this memory, he does trust Eames’ assessment, and nods slowly, reaching out to grip his brother’s hand. Q frowns: “I don’t understand. I did a background check.”

 

Arthur shrugs meekly: “Maybe it wasn’t on the public record. The administration might have privately censured him.”

 

Q’s squeezes his hand, shaking his head a little as if his body is trying to reject the information. “I don’t believe it,” he whispers weakly.

 

“Then call him,” Arthur suggests, “Ask him to be honest with you, Q. You have the right to know.”

 

***

 

He chews on the side of his thumb as the phone rings, and is just about to tell Arthur that James isn’t answering because he’s probably in class when the other end clicks.

 

“Q? Hello?”

 

There’s a desperate tint to the man’s voice that Q isn’t above admitting makes him feel slightly smug. _Good_. He should be upset. Q’s spent almost twenty-four hours crying.

 

“James, I have to ask you something, and I want you to be perfectly honest with me.”

 

He looks to his brother for support and Arthur nods encouragingly.

 

There’s a long pause before James answers: “All right.”

 

“Did you have an affair with a student a few years ago?”

 

At first, he thinks maybe James is so offended that he hung up and the thought makes his throat tighten. Of course the rumor isn’t true, and now he’s deeply wounded James with the mere accusation, but when he looks at his phone, the call timer continues to tick away the seconds. James is still there. He just isn’t speaking.

 

“Who told you?” James weakly asks. Q’s lips part, but he can’t speak. It doesn’t matter who told him, and perhaps James knows that, but he’s buying time, and hoping to distract Q as the world falls to pieces around them. Arthur is carefully watching him, brow furrowed, his face a giant question mark, but Q can barely breathe let alone fill him in on what’s happening. “You don’t know the full context, Q. You have to give me a chance to—“

 

“No, I don’t want to see you again,” he says, forcing the words out and pressing the red phone button to end the call.

 

His heart pounds rabbit quick, lungs too small, incapable of storing enough air. There’s a warm pressure on his hand and when he looks down, Arthur is cradling it, telling him to breathe, but he sounds very far away. It occurs to Q then that he’s having a panic attack. He’s only had a few over the course of his entire life, but he immediately recognizes the symptoms. Q hunches over, cradling his head, and Arthur switches to rubbing his back, repeating the mantra that he needs to breathe. 

 

It’s odd because he didn’t have a panic attack when his parents died, or during the funeral, and perhaps if he didn’t feel lightheaded from a lack of oxygen he would feel guilty over that.

 

At some point, he must lay down because the next time he opens his eyes, he’s sprawled out on the bed and Arthur is kneeling on the floor, warily watching him like he’s a time bomb about to explode.

 

“What am I going to do?” he hoarsely asks, “I have to finish the class…I’ll have to see him again.”

 

“We could report him to the university,” Arthur suggests.

 

“No,” Q says quickly. He might be hurt and angry, but he still loves James and would never purposefully destroy his career. Fingers rake through his hair and Q groans, frustrated with himself — that he’s allowed things to reach this point, “I just want to forget him for a little while,” he says, gaze dropping to his brother’s profile and his disheveled hair, normally combed and styled into submission, and the wrinkled collar of his shirt — so very unarthurian that Q immediately takes note, “Where did you go earlier?”

 

“Um…” Arthur clears his throat, “I saw a friend.”

 

“The man you threatened, I know,” Q says, brow furrowed, and now he’s very interested in Arthur’s story, moving onto an elbow so he can monitor the blush of his brother’s cheek, “Did you have an adult sleepover, Arthur?” he asks, a slow grin curling his lips. He delights in the wicked scowl sent his way, and it feels good to do anything except cry over James. He doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

 

“He’s so terrible, Q. I don’t know what I’m doing,” Arthur sighs, “He doesn’t own real cutlery, and his fashion sense—I can’t even call it sense.”

 

“Are you having fun with him?”

 

Arthur furrows his brow and stares at his brother as though he’s talking in a different language, “I suppose…for what it is.”

 

“That’s good, then. Don’t do what I did — stupidly fall in love. This is when we’re meant to have light, spontaneous affairs. This man sounds perfect for you. Maybe he can help you relax.”

 

His phone vibrates and when Q looks down, he sees James’ name flashing across the screen. A loud, drained sigh escapes him: “I need to get out of this room.” Actually, he’d like to get off campus and far away from James, but their options are somewhat limited given that they are currently underage. 

 

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him: “Do you know anyone who can get us fake IDs?”

 

Arthur frowns and sighs: “Yeah, of course.”

 

***

 

They spend a long time getting ready, and it’s a pleasant distraction from the James situation. Arthur doesn’t even get mad when Q shoots down a couple of his personal ensemble ideas because his brother isn’t crying, so the criticism is worth it just for that fact. Finally, Q settles on a dark sweater and black slacks for Arthur — conservative, but classic, so he approves. They opt for a slightly preppier look for Q: burberry sweater and skinny khakis, and Q lets Arthur style his hair with some light gel so the wild mane has a bit of direction.

 

“You look very cool,” Arthur grins.

 

Q considers himself in the mirror, adjusting his glasses, but he looks pleased: “I should let you style me all the time.”

 

 _Shave and a haircut_ raps on their door and Q curiously looks his way as Arthur rolls his eyes.

 

Eames is not alone. There’s some man Arthur has never met before standing beside him, looking sheepish as though already knowing he’s an uninvited guest.

 

“This is my man, Yusuf,” Eames explains, patting his friend on the back once they’re inside the room and the door is shut, “He’s got the IDs.” Eames grins at Q: “Ahh, so you’re the brother,” he says, voice so suggestive that Arthur reflexively mutters _Eames_ in warning.

 

Q seems oblivious to the lascivious undercurrent, extending his hand: “I’m Q. Pleasure to meet you.”

 

“The pleasure is entirely mine,” Eames says, cradling more than shaking his hand, probably planning to kiss the knuckles, but Arthur swoops in and steers him away by an elbow: “Yusuf, please show my brother the IDs. He’ll approve them.”

 

“Darling..” Eames declares, positively giddy that Arthur is forcefully pushing him across the room so they have a bit of privacy by the windows, “If you’d like some alone time, we can abscond to my boudoir.”

 

“Stop talking like that,” Arthur mutters, “My brother is going through a rough patch right now, so I don’t want you to be inappropriate with him.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, I’m not interested in him,” Eames growls, dipping close as if planning to kiss him.

 

Arthur pulls back and scowls at him, though the corner of his mouth involuntarily ticks upward: “Anyway, thanks for getting us the IDs.”

 

Eames hums, eyes shining as he considers Arthur’s face: “Tell me something true.”

 

He rolls his eyes, laughing because he remembers their first date, if it can even be called that, at Eames’ house when the man asked him to share a secret. Apparently, this is a game that he likes to play.

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he answers, a little surprised himself by the confession, but the warmth in his chest indicates it’s true.

 

Eames’ eyebrows quirk upwards, a bad sign, because it means he’s feeling smug and therefore unbearable: “Is that right?” he purrs.

 

“Your turn.”

 

“I think about you all the time,” he says, unsmiling, sincere, suddenly so dashing that Arthur has a difficult time looking at him, “And it’s strange because you’re not even my type.”

 

Arthur’s face burns in response, but his brother’s voice pulls him from the conversation: “Arthur…these look good to me.” When he turns, Q and Yusuf are watching them, his brother holding up the little plastic rectangles.

 

“Of course they bloody do,” Yusuf says, offended by the implication they could be anything but stellar work, “Holographic foil, UV printed image, micro text….They even have the bloody laser engraved ghost image.”

 

“Easy, mate. No one’s calling you an amateur,” Eames says.

 

“He bloody well is,” Yusuf accuses, nodding at Q.

 

His brother looks unfazed, shrugging slightly: “I have very high standards.”

 

Eames chuckles and when Arthur gazes over his shoulder, the man smirks at him: “He really is your brother.”

 

***

 

Eames and Yusuf tag along because Yusuf has a car, which is far more convenient than riding the campus shuttle. Technically, Arthur and Q are well off enough to pay for a taxi, but Arthur is careful about managing their inheritance. After all, it will have to last their whole lives, and he doesn’t want to spend recklessly while they’re at university.

 

At least, this is what he tells himself: Eames is only coming because Eames’ friend has the car, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the two of them keep flirting and laughing.

 

They choose a seedy dive bar on the outskirts of town, but at least security is lax. The bouncer doesn’t even use a UV light on their IDs, and then they’re inside, severely overdressed, but one step closer to alcohol and forgetting about their terrible day.

 

“Is this your system? Tell a bloke _fuck you_ one moment and then bat your pretty lashes at him the next?” Eames asks, mouth practically touching his ear as they lean against the bar top and wait for their drinks.

 

Arthur winces. “I’m sorry…about that.”

 

“I thought we were having a nice time.”

 

“We were.”

 

Eames eyes him thoughtfully, raising a hand when Arthur tries to pay upon the arrival of their drinks. The man fishes out his wallet and pays in cash. Arthur hands two beers to Yusuf and Q and they find a booth at the back of the bar by the pool tables. Arthur sits by his brother, a strategic decision, and Eames’ eyes gleam as though he’s fully aware. The man sits beside Yusuf and raises his glass: “Here’s to forgetting about that wanker. He’s unworthy of you, love.”

 

“Thanks,” Q murmurs, shy and dejected as he sips the beer and licks the foam from his lip.

 

Arthur smiles slightly at Eames, thankful the man is honoring his request to be gentle with Q, though the sweet gesture is somewhat undermined by Eames playing footsie with him beneath the table. 

 

“What happened?” Yusuf asks.

 

Q cringes at the idea of having to rehash everything, so Arthur interjects: “Some asshole lied to my brother.”

 

“Well, to hell with him!” Yusuf cries, with such conviction that Q bursts out laughing — or maybe it has to do with the half-glass of alcohol he’s consumed. Q has a very low tolerance.

 

A few hours pass and empty glasses cover their table, which they have now abandoned for the sake of playing a few games of some of the worst pool ever to occur in the great state of Massachusetts. Arthur and Q are terrible, but Eames and Yusuf are somehow worse, possibly because they’re shit-faced. Yusuf is trying for a fancy behind-the-back shot, balanced precariously on the corner of the table, when he slips off and crashes to the floor ass-first.

 

Q laughs so hard that he gets the hiccups and Arthur has to coach him into holding his breath until the spell passes. Meanwhile, he’s smiling like mad, unaware of the change in mood until he catches Eames looking at him.

 

“What?” he grins.

 

“You’re like a whole different person with him,” he says, nodding Q’s way. His brother is stooped over, aiming to keep his head between his legs because he heard one time that’s a good way to get rid of hiccups.

 

Q stands up suddenly, appearing at his side, arm thrown around Arthur’s shoulders as he declares: “Because Arthur is…the best. He’s _the best_.”

 

Arthur smiles, looping an arm around Q’s narrow waist to keep him upright. He’s never seen his brother this drunk before, and he’ll tell Eames to cut him off soon, but at least he stopped talking about James. Or so he thought.

 

“I’m well aware,” Eames chuckles.

 

“No, he’s _the best_ ,” Q stresses, leaning forward conspiratorially like they’re sharing a secret, “I didn’t want to bring James near him ‘cause I was afraid he’d like my brother better.”

 

Arthur frowns, examining his twin’s profile: the flushed cheeks and glassy eyes behind their lenses. 

 

“Is that why we never met?”

 

“No!” Q explodes laughing, “He just didn’t wanna meet you ‘cause he’s a bastard.”

 

While Arthur continues to frown, Eames laughs, ecstatic that Q is showing some spirit, even if it’s artificial moxie fueled by inebriation. 

 

“Well said, love. To bastards!” he crows, raising his glass, inspiring some nearby drunks to roar and throw back their drinks, as if they needed the excuse. 

 

Arthur rolls his eyes, about to interject and suggest Q sit down and drink some water for a little bit, when a large tattooed man walks up behind Eames and taps him on the shoulder. “Well, look who it is!” the stranger proclaims, loudly enough to secure the attention of his crew playing pool at the other table, and which consist of other similarly built companions.

 

For the first time since Arthur has known him, Eames looks nervous, but he tries to play it off as joviality.

 

“Heya, Sam, boys,” he adds, nodding to the table, “How’s tricks?”

 

“How’s _tricks_?” the man growls, and Arthur instinctively moves to stand between Eames’ back and Q. Whoever this guy is, he’s not friendly, and though Arthur hasn’t been in many fistfights, he’s fairly confident he can throw down more capably than his twin, “Where the fuck is my money, man?”

 

When Arthur looks around, he notices Yusuf is completely gone — most likely bounced the moment he knew trouble was brewing.

 

“Ah, yes. Afraid I’m a bit short at the moment—“

 

The man derisively snorts, long hair whipping over his shoulder as he turns to address his crew: “Where’ve I heard that before? That’s always your story, man.”

 

Eames opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly Q cries: “You need a haircut!” and dissolves into laughter, slumped against Arthur’s back.

 

Arthur’s eyes widen in horror, matching Eames’ own reaction. The man seems confused for a moment, unsure of where the comment came from, until he cranes his neck and sees Q peeking over Arthur’s shoulder: “Who the fuck is that?”

 

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” Eames says, puffing up his chest and positioning himself between the twins and their assailant.

 

But he might object too passionately because the man smirks and nods towards Arthur and Q: “New plan: I take one of them as insurance until you pay your debt in full.”

 

“I’d like to see you try, you big ape!” Q slurs.

 

Arthur hisses: “Q, _shut up_.”

 

Sam snarls in response, surging forward, and Eames grabs a pool cue from the table, whipping it across the man’s face and splintering the wood against his jaw. A nearby woman screams when Sam’s face opens, blood pouring as he howls. 

 

Things get a bit blurry after that.

 

Arthur grabs Q and sprints across the room, past the bar, and out the emergency exit. His brother is wasted, stumbling and running into things, and Arthur momentarily considers carrying him when he hears heavy breathing behind them and wheels around, fists raised, ready to clock one of the gang members. Instead, he sees Eames, pale, eyes huge, holding a finger to his lips.

 

“Yusuf brought the car ‘round. Let’s go,” he whispers.

 

“They’re out here!” a voice announces moments before three of men appear in the doorway.

 

Q is slumped against the alley wall and he laughs/hiccups when they appear: “Uh-oh.”

 

“Shit,” Arthur hisses, keeping Q behind them, which is sort of pointless considering they’re literally cornered in the alleyway — a heap of garbage bags spilling out of a dumpster behind them. Arthur tries not to imagine their various limbs sticking out of the same receptacle after they’re murdered.

 

“Let them go, boys. Your business is with me,” Eames says.

 

“Too late for that,” one of the men says, stepping forward. He’s dirty blond with a matching, coarse beard, and he smirks: “You spilled first blood, so we gotta return the favor.”

 

The cocking of a gun secures all of their attention, faces pointed towards the mouth of the alley where a man stands, aiming the weapon at the blond biker. “Let the boys go and no one has to get hurt,” he calmly states.

 

“Who the fuck is _that_?” the biker cries in exasperation.

 

“James?” Q slurs, swaying a bit as he squints in his direction.

 

For a second, Arthur thinks his brother is hallucinating until the man replies: “Heya, dove. Everything will be all right.”

 

Q scowls: “I’m mad at you.”

 

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” the biker snarls. 

 

James walks forwards slowly, gun barrel aimed squarely at the man’s chest. “The boys are coming with me.” He glances at Eames, “Go.”

 

Arthur grabs Q by the arm and drags him out of the alley, followed by Eames. When the blond biker barks, “Fuck you!” and steps forward, James diverts the gun slightly and fires, blowing apart the bricks to the right of the man’s temple, just grazing the hair billowing out from his skull. “Fuck!” the man cries, stumbling backwards.

 

“Don’t follow us,” James calmly instructs as he backs out of the alley.

 

Yusuf is not waiting in the car, having most likely peeled away once he heard gunfire, so instead they pile into James’ car: Q in the passenger seat and Arthur and Eames in the back. James speeds out of the lot, glancing in the rearview mirror: “Hello, Charles,” he says in a less-than-friendly manner.

 

“Your name is Charles?” Arthur asks.

 

Eames cringes while Q asks: “You know each other?”

 

“Let me guess,” James continues, “Charles is the one who told you about my past.”

 

A coldness spreads through his limbs as a sick feeling churns in his stomach, though he doesn’t fully understand why just yet. 

 

“Don’t say things we can’t take back, mate,” Eames snarls.

 

James’ eyes are intense in the reflection — alert and furious: “You know about him, don’t you?” he asks, attention shifted to Arthur, “He’s a gambling addict and a conman. He’s been to prison three times for swindling people out of their money. For God’s sake, he probably profiled you for your inheritance.”

 

The car is silent, outside James’ wheels hissing along the asphalt. The red brick buildings of campus grow larger on the horizon. They’ll be home soon.

 

“Is that true?” he asks quietly.

 

If he didn’t feel utterly betrayed, perhaps Arthur would sympathize with Eames, who looks shaken and pale slumped against the door like a condemned man.

 

“Darling…let me explain. At first that was the plan, but—“

 

“Stop the car,” Arthur gasps.

 

“We’re not at campus yet,” James says, as Eames interjects:

 

“Arthur, wait.”

 

“Everything’s all streaky bits of light,” Q sighs, face pressed to the window.

 

“Stop the car!”

 

James screeches to a halt and Arthur opens the door, yanking free of Eames’ grip when the man tries to stop him.

 

“You’re mad! It’ll take you ages to walk!”

 

But Arthur ignores him, yanking open the passenger door to help his brother out. “I’ll call a cab!” he shouts, slamming the door shut. At first, he’s sure James is going to linger nearby, but eventually the man pulls away and it’s just the two of them.

 

“Why’d you do that? I want to see James,” Q sulks.

 

“Only because you’re shit-faced. You’ll thank me in the morning,” Arthur grumbles, pulling up the collar of his jacket.

 

Q is sobering up slowly, so he doesn’t need as much help walking as they follow the lights of campus.

 

“Why’re you sad? You said it yourself…Eames is terrible and you were just having fun with him.”

 

Arthur doesn’t answer him, too angry to confront the truth while he’s tipsy and freezing. He’s been saying all this time that he and Eames are just having fun, but that’s not the truth. Arthur likes him. A lot. But Eames is a liar and Arthur can’t like a liar, let alone fall in love with one.

 

He wishes there was someone to call — not just for a ride, but also advice. Arthur imagines calling his father, also a reckless lover, and asking him what he should do about Eames, and Q, and by extension James. His father would give him wise, worldly advice, and years from now they would laugh about their antics. But his father isn’t here because he was foolish and selfish, and Arthur is that way too.

 

No matter how hard he pivots, he always ends up running towards the fire.

 

***

 

He wakes up face-down on Q’s bed, still fully dressed (including his jacket), one of the boots dangling off his toes. Grunting, he shakes it off and squints at the clock: 8:30AM on a Saturday, luckily, so they’ve no where to be. His brother is passed out on his back beside him, glasses still on, mouth agape. When Arthur shifts on the mattress, Q snorts and wakes up: “Bloody hell…” he winces, squinting in annoyance at Arthur: “Why’re you in my bed?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Arthur croaks. His mouth feels like sandpaper and he’s badly in need of water, so he rolls out of bed and trudges to the mini-fridge they keep by the couch. He plucks out two bottles of water, one of which he hands over to Q, who nearly tears it open and guzzles half before murmuring a thank you. Arthur sits on the of the bed and takes a healthy swig before asking: “Do you remember walking back?”

 

Q furrows his brow and stares at him, like Arthur is trying to trick him with a clever riddle: “We walked?” When Arthur nods, he sighs: “No, I don’t remember that. I recall a bar, and Eames cheating at pool—“

 

“Do you remember the fight?” Q frowns and shakes is head, so Arthur asks: “What about James showing up with a gun?”

 

The plastic bottle creaks in Q’s hand when he squeezes it. “What?” he gasps weakly.

 

Arthur is forced to recite the events minute-by-minute following the moment Q blacked out. By the time he’s finished, Q is slumped against the wall, a tired, miserable expression draped across his face. 

 

“I didn’t say anything stupid, did I? When James was there?”

 

Arthur smirks: “You get mouthy when you’re drunk, I can tell you that much.”

 

His brother groans, embarrassed, removing his glasses briefly so he can rub his eyes. “I’m so hungover,” he complains, then seems to recall the rest of the story and frowns at Arthur: “So Eames is a conman? Do you really think he was after our money?”

 

Arthur sighs, considering the question. He remembers meeting Eames — how the man seemed to drop out of the air and insisted on being strangely attracted to Arthur, which at the time was flattering. No one had ever said that about him before, but now the idea that it might have all been a lie makes him feel naive and humiliated. How could he have fallen for such a transparent con?

 

“I’m not sure,” he says eventually.

 

“Didn’t you do a background check on him?”

 

“Of course I did,” Arthur responds, mildly offended, “But I only knew his last name, and Charles Eames might be an alias anyway.”

 

They’re quiet for a little while, alternating between silence and drinking water, hydration slowly suffocating the remainder of their hangovers — soon to be fully vanquished by a greasy breakfast. 

 

“I guess we’re both single now,” Q says, a little sullenly, but a wry smile begins to curve his lips.

 

Arthur smiles slightly and reaches out to squeeze his knee: “Guess so.”

 

***

 

The cafeteria hash browns are slightly burnt, greasy, and perfect. Arthur forgets he loves organic whole foods for the sake of shoveling an entire plate into his stomach to conquer the leftover nausea. 

 

Afterwards, they return to the room, no longer hungover, but still exhausted and dejected from the dramatic events. They collapse on Arthur’s bed, both sprawled on their backs, considering the ceiling. In these moments, Arthur compares himself to his brother. Though they’re fraternal twins, he notes some similarities: they’re the same height, thin (though Q is slighter than him), feet about the same size, comprised of long limbs, sporting dark features.

 

Then there are the invisible similarities: bright, stubborn, sarcastic, far too eager to fall in love with dangerous men.

 

“I should have protected you,” Arthur whispers.

 

Q looks over at him, brow wrinkled in concern: “Arthur, I’m not a child. I knew what I was doing with James.”

 

“I know, but…” he trails off, sighing, unsure of how to explain his feelings. 

 

This is the role he’s carved for himself: protecter, organizer, the one who can see a little farther across the horizon than Q simply because he’s more experienced. But he failed Q because he made the mistake of trusting him when he said James was a student. Arthur should have dug a little deeper, committed more to the research, and discovered the truth.

 

His own stupid emotions then distracted him when it came to Eames. 

 

He should have _known_.

 

Arthur rolls onto his side so he can see Q better: “Tell me something true,” he says, forcing the flash of Eames’ face from his memory.

 

His twin rolls to the side so they’re eye-level, a warped mirror’s reflection of one another.

 

“I love you…quite a lot,” Q says.

 

It’s amazing how much a simple declaration relieves his bruised ego. A personal failure led him into making an even larger mistake, and yet he has his twin, and his brother loves him. The reassurance is a cool salve on Arthur’s wounds.

 

“Your turn,” Q whispers.

 

Arthur feels something hot graze his cheek and Q reaches to touch his face, which is when he knows he’s crying. “I miss mom and dad a lot,” he confesses.

 

“Me too,” Q whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears.

 

And because he needs his twin to know it, Arthur adds: “I love you too.”

 

***

 

The plan is to attend class. Really, there’s no way around that obstacle, and he and Arthur have looked at this problem from every angle. They consider Q reporting James to the university, but Q quickly ruled out that idea. Then they spitball an idea where Q privately writes James telling him he no longer feels comfortable in the professor’s class, but he wants a stellar final grade, _or else_ (the _or else_ of course being Arthur’s idea). 

 

Q scraps that plan too. Too dramatic. Potentially too messy, as well.

 

Ultimately, he decides to finish the semester because it’s the simplest solution. That’s what he tells Arthur and himself, anyway. He makes minute-by-minute silent affirmations that it has nothing to do with the fact that he wants to see James again.

 

 _I will sit in class and then leave immediately afterwards_ , he repeats to himself over and over.

 

Q avoids eye contact with James the entire class — from the minute he walks in, throughout class as he hunches over his desk in the back, and as he packs his bag once James dismisses them. The whole time, he’s aware the man is watching him — perhaps subtly, Q can’t be sure because he isn’t watching — but he feels the burn of James’ stare. Q is swept back to the man’s house, up the stairs to his bedroom where he kneels on the mattress, James’ cock heavy on his tongue, strong fingers gripping his hair, a warm voice telling him he’s doing _so well_.

 

His face burns and he quickly shoves the books into the messenger bag, throws the strap across his chest, but he only gets as far as the first row of seats when James calls: “Q…may I speak with you?”

 

He sighs, watching forlornly as the last student’s back slips out the door. It was naive to think James wouldn’t want to talk about what happened, but Q is nonetheless filled with dread as he approaches the desk. The feeling doubles when he looks at James — really looks at him — and notices how tired he looks. He also hasn’t shaved in a few days and his shirt is wrinkled.

 

“Are you all right?” he asks, sounding so concerned that Q feels a little queasy. He doesn’t want to believe James cares for him. It’s easier to make a clean break if he believes the version of events that portrays him as a lecherous old man and Q as the naive, too-trusting student.

 

“I’m fine,” he answers, pausing as he considers how to appropriately navigate this conversation: “Thank you…for helping us the other night.”

 

“You should steer clear of Charles Eames. He’ll get you into trouble,” James says, arms crossed as though he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Before, they would have kissed by now, and James would hold his face, or kiss the backs of his fingers.

 

Q hates all the cold nothingness between them now.

 

“What will he do? Lie to me?” Q retorts, the anger still lingering, a stubborn current that refuses to allow him to focus on superfluous details like the sparkle of James’ eyes or the stretch of his wide shoulders.

 

The man visibly deflates, nodding slightly as though accepting his medicine. “I know…you’re angry, but there’s more to the story, Q. I did have a relationship with a student many years ago, but it was consensual, and I loved him very much. I thought he loved me too, but…perhaps it was a phase, I don’t know,” James sighs, “He broke up with me, but before that a faculty member saw us out together and reported me to the university. I was censured and suspended, and it was humiliating, but I do not make this a habit. I swore I’d never do it again, and then I met you.”

 

Q frowns, taking in the new information. He’s unsure what to believe now. This version of events humanizes James, perhaps even paints him as a sympathetic character, but he doesn’t know what to believe anymore, and he’s not sure how to test James to be sure he’s not some kind of pathological liar.

 

Then an idea occurs to him.

 

“Tell me why you left the military,” he says.

 

James’ past was the one point of contentiousness between them before the big blow-out fight that led to their breakup. Any time Q attempted to inquire about his military record, the man bristled, bordering on outright hostility, before he changed the subject or Q relented and dropped it. 

 

If James answers him truthfully, it may mean he’s being honest about everything else.

 

The man sighs, a hand rubbing his jaw as he eyes Q thoughtfully. He can practically see James weighing the pros and cons of sharing the information, which annoys him. He’s being gracious by standing here, even bothering to give James a second chance.

 

“Nevermind,” he mutters, turning.

 

“Wait! Q, _wait_. Bloody—Close the door.” Q eyes him warily, but complies, walking to the door to close it before returning to the desk. James exhales sharply, smirking weakly, a hint of admiration in his gaze. Maybe he respects that Q is making him work for forgiveness, “I didn’t want to share this because it’s not a period of my life that I’m particularly proud of, and I didn’t want you to lose respect for me.”

 

“No need to worry about that now.”

 

James cringes, “No, I suppose not.” Q almost feels sorry for him in the resigned way he sighs the words. After all, aside from neglecting to share certain details of his life, James had always been very kind towards him, if not somewhat bullheaded and sarcastic, but then again, he’d enjoyed those qualities too, “I was SAS, and I headed a team back in 2003 into Iraq. I can’t say what happened—I just can’t, Q—but suffice to say we killed innocent civilians. I can’t excuse what we did, and it took me a long time just so I could sleep at night…”

 

Q listens, frowning. He can tell by the halting way James shares the details that he’s telling the truth — that whatever happened was traumatic enough that James can barely stand summoning the memories to this day. What he’s describing are war crimes, and it’s understandable that a man who has left that life behind would not want people associating him with the obliteration of an entire nation.

 

“What we had…” he continues, “It breathed new life into me, Q. I didn’t want you to think of me that way. After what I did, I needed…I’m not sure…something beautiful in my life, I suppose. That’s why I devoted my time to literature and teaching, and then I met you — more beauty,” he adds, smiling weakly.

 

“I was in love with you,” Q says, feeling oddly vulnerable now that James has confessed his past, and partly hating him for it. He doesn’t want to feel sentimental. Q wants to experience righteous vengeance, so he hopes the words will sting.

 

Judging by James’ expression, they do, the wound splitting open: “I know, dove. I love you too,” he says quietly.

 

He’s unprepared for the waves of happiness and sadness, the way they crash together, the flood pushing a sob from his lips as he rushes forward and into James’ arms. The man fiercely grips his back, lips warm against his temple.

 

“I’m sorry, love.”

 

Q can’t speak, so instead he rests his head against James’ shoulder, arms looped around his neck, and they stay like that a long time. It’s risky. Someone could walk in at any moment, and this time James won’t get a second warning. He’ll be fired, forced to leave the education profession and return to God know’s what — maybe revert back to his military experience. But James is willing to risk all that just to hold him for a few moments.

 

“I still love you,” Q confesses weakly.

 

“Well, I am a lucky man, hm?” 

 

James nuzzles the side of his face until Q lifts his chin and they kiss — sweetly, different than the other times when they were passionate and frenzied.

 

“What are we going to do, James?” he sighs.

 

They’re destined to be together, and yet they’ll have to live double lives until Q can graduate.

 

“Live together day-by-day. We’ll figure it out, Q. All I know is I want you.”

 

A thrill runs up his spine and Q melts into his broad chest when James’ lips find him again, mouth parting with a content sigh.

 

***

 

Arthur knows what happened the second he returns to the room, notices the dopey expression on Q’s face, and rolls his eyes: “Oh my God. You didn’t…” But then Q tells him the whole story, including the details about his military record and the love affair. His brother considers the updated information, “Well, that does change things,” he admits, “But he’s still a liar.”

 

“Yes, but he lied for a good reason. Doesn’t that matter?”

 

“All liars think they’re lying for a good reason,” Arthur grumbles. “So you’re just going to have an affair with him in secret _for years_?”

 

Q sits at his desk in the chair opposite his brother and shrugs slowly: “If that’s what it takes. It’s better than being without him.”

 

Arthur looks as though he’d like to argue that point, but he really isn’t in a position to do so. Q spots the laptop screen behind him, the website for the FBI’s federal database search, which Arthur has apparently hacked into.

 

“Doing some light reading?”

 

Arthur sighs: “He has multiple aliases and he’s wanted in four states for theft and forgery.”

 

“Charming,” Q says, “Still, it’s impressive he’s a free man and managed to attend Harvard.”

 

“He probably forged his high school diploma and grades, and I’m not sure I like you talking like this,” Arthur smirks, eyeing him curiously, “Since when do you hang with killing machines and conmen?”

 

Q frowns thoughtfully, “Well, it’s not like you and I are total innocents,” he points out, glancing meaningfully to Arthur’s computer.

 

“We’re white hats,” he answers defensively. 

 

“But haven’t you ever thought about how fun being a black hat might be?” Q grins, only half-joking. “Neither of us need our degrees. We’re already cleverer than our classmates anyway, and we could leave, the four of us, find all sorts of adventure.”

 

Arthur stares at him in disbelief: “You’re joking.”

 

“I’m not sure,” Q says, smiling.

 

“None of this is relevant because I hate Eames,” Arthur grumbles, returning his attention to the hacked mainframe, “He’s such an idiot. Listen to his aliases: Lance Chesterfield, Tripp Jetson, he went by Dallas Colt for a number of years..” Arthur trails off when he glances back and noticed his brother watching him with a smirk: “What?”

 

“Nothing…You just seem very distracted by a man you supposedly hate.”

 

Arthur opens his mouth to argue the point because it’s his default setting, but his mouth quickly closes when he realizes Q is right.

 

 _Shit_.

 

***

 

Arthur knocks on the door and glares at Eames when the man’s face appears, grinning smugly: “Wipe that look off your face. I haven’t forgiven you,” Arthur says, walking inside without so much as a hello. He pauses in the living room, brow furrowed as a small tabby cat stares back at him, seated politely on the floor beside the couch: “What the hell is this?”

 

“A cat, darling. He belongs to Yusuf, but I’m watching him.”

 

“Terrific,” Arthur sighs, sidestepping the cat to sit on the couch, “I have some questions for you.”

 

Eames is wearing some ratty jeans and a white t-shirt that declares _Bahama Mama_ in neon pink, and still the ensemble is better than that robe he usually walks around in. Strangely, Arthur misses the sight of the orange abomination. 

 

“Absolutely,” Eames responds, perfectly pleasant as he takes a seat on the trunk so he’s directly in front of Arthur, their knees almost touching.

 

Not that Arthur notices, of course.

 

He clears his throat, determinedly ignoring the coy look on the man’s face as he starts with the easy part: “How did James know about your record?”

 

Eames seems a bit surprised, perhaps not expecting Arthur to open with that question. A small part of him feels smugly satisfied that he’s managed to pull the rug out from beneath the man’s feet. _Good, now you know what it feels like_.

 

“I’m honestly not sure. Perhaps he did his research. There’s more to that man than meets the eye.”

 

 _You’ve no idea_. Arthur nods once, satisfied on that point. Next, he asks: “Were you using me for my money?”

 

The question sobers him slightly, Eames taking a deep breath before answering: “At first, yes. That’s why I staked out the coffeehouse. I knew what you looked like, that you and Q would be attending the school — your arrival caused quite a buzz in the press — and so I planned to meet you.”

 

Arthur swallows thickly as he listens, and though this total honesty is what he requested of Eames, he still feels sick by the idea that he could have been so stupid.

 

“But then…” Eames continues, “I fell for you, darling. Truly, I did. I don’t need your money. I can find a mark somewhere else, but I want _you_ , Arthur.”

 

“Is that what you tell them at first?” Arthur asks softly, “Wear them down over time until they just sign over the money to you?”

 

Eames scoots forward so he can cradle Arthur’s hands between his own: “Darling…” he sighs, “If it will help, I swear to you now that I will never touch a penny of your inheritance. I’ll pay my own way. I just want to be with you.”

 

He smiles slightly, unsure what Eames means by that, but liking how it sounds, nonetheless. Arthur is unsure what tomorrow will bring. After all, they’re still enrolled students — barely even Freshmen, and he and Q have no concrete plans to run off tomorrow with their lovers. They’ll need to study and graduate, but plans don’t mean much — his parents’ untimely death taught him that sober lesson.

 

“I’m not going anywhere without Q,” he says, seemingly apropos of nothing, but Eames understands, smiling wryly:

 

“Wouldn’t dream of separating the dynamic duo.”

 

Arthur looks at him, watching the slow transformation, the seduction and playfulness slowly melting away to reveal something tender and true that Arthur believes with his whole heart. Eames leans down to kiss the pulse of his wrist and Arthur sighs: “I don’t know what I’ll do if you’re lying to me.”

 

Eames seems hurt that Arthur still doesn’t believe him fully, but he can’t silence the small, fussing voice of doubt that resides at the back of his brain. 

 

“Everyone else is a mark. Not you,” he insists.

 

He grips Eames’ hands, pulling him forward until the man is kneeling between his spread thighs, gaze worshipful as it casts across his face and Arthur’s chest swells with affection. Maybe, just maybe, Eames is telling the truth.

 

“What happens next?” he whispers, pausing to kiss the full mouth that he has missed so dearly. Arthur isn’t really sure he wants to hear the answer.

 

Eames grins.

 

“You and I are going to get into lots of trouble together, darling.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr for drabbles! theaoidos.tumblr.com


End file.
